


The quality of dissonance

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Series: Sinful notes of decadence [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Escorts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom Melkor, Comedy, Drama, Everybody lies, Fëanor is a dick, Incest, M/M, Mild Gore, Non-Graphic Violence, Or not, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suspense, Threesome - M/M/M, Uncle/Nephew Incest, escort Mairon, eventually, nothing is what it seems to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-06-08 15:16:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6860317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melkor is a famous composer struggling with depression and lack of creativity. His twin brother Manwë is getting married soon. In order to pretend he's completely over his bad break-up some time ago (he's not), Melkor hires an escort to accompany him on a month's long visit to the family estate Taniquetil.<br/>Soon enough, he learns that what seemed simple enough is much more complex, nobody is who they claim to be and the old family estate hides secrets which probably should have been kept hidden...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The treble clef

**Author's Note:**

> Yes it's me with another series while I have other stories to finish haha.  
> Anyway. The amount of time that went into this AU is ridiculous so please at least give it a try <3

The male escort, Melkor thinks, is exactly what he envisioned: dark skin littered with hundreds of freckles, long, golden red hair, eyes the colour of amber, plump lips. Shorter than him, lean but not lithe, toned body that most likely turns eyes wherever he goes. Dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, armed with impeccable manners, the young man looks nothing like a body for hire, which is exactly what Melkor needs right now.

‘I need you to accompany me for the entire month,’ he announces to the escort, whose only reaction is a slight widening of his eyes. Melkor goes on, 'I'm ready to pay double your normal rate, because I know this is an unusual request. I will also cover all of your expenses in that time – food, clothing, alcohol, drugs, whatever you need.’

'Generous,’ the escort says. His voice sounds like melty dark chocolate tastes: deep and rich and seductive. Yes, he is perfect for Melkor’s needs.

'Of course, you have been notified that I do not perform any sexual acts?’ Asks the escort, lifting an inquiring eyebrow. 'What you pay for is only my attentive company. Are you sure this is the kind of service you require for the entire month, sir?’

'I could get plenty of sex without paying for it,’ says Melkor. The escort seems to give him a once-over at that and, judging from his little nod of acknowledgement, he comes to the same conclusion. For a moment, they are both silent before finally, Melkor reveals the purpose behind his hiring an escort:

'I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend in front of my family.’

The escort looks at him blankly for a moment, showing no emotion whatsoever. Either he is completely unperturbed by Melkor's proposition, or he is good at hiding his feelings. The latter seems slightly more probable, considering the man's profession: one must be a capable liar in order to be successful in a line of work which requires frequently complimenting ageing people of any given gender during boring charity parties or pompous events. If this man is good enough to make a living without ever engaging in sexual intercourse with his clients – and he can, his agency assured Melkor of this when he called them - then, well. It makes Melkor even more sure this is the right person for the job.

'I will do it,' the escort says finally. 'You will have to send all the details to the agency so that they can draft a sufficient contract. This is not a regular job, so the standard contract may not apply,' he adds thoughtfully.

'Of course,' Melkor agrees. He is not relieved that his offer was accepted because he has never considered the possibility of a refusal. Not with the terms he is proposing.

'I reckon it would be wise if we got to know one another before we meet your family,' the escort says. 'Needless to say, I have gathered a certain amount of information about you from the press, but in order to successfully pass as your significant other, I will have to know more about you as a person.'

'Yes, that sounds reasonable. Once I get your contract worked out with the agency, I will give you a call. We will meet up and share intimate details of our lives,' Melkor decides. He has the number recorded in his mobile as _precious flame_. It sounds like a solid nickname for someone with such hair colour. He hopes it is endearing enough. He is not particularly good at nicknames.

The escort turns to leave after accepting his decision with no further suggestions. Once at the door, he pauses and gives Melkor a smile that shows off his pearly-white teeth.

'By the way, my name is Mairon Aulëndil. It's a pleasure to meet you, my love,' he says cheekily and, satisfied, he leaves before Melkor can reply. This will be an interesting month for both of them, Melkor is certain of it.

  
  


The reason why the famous composer Melkor Bauglir needs to hire an escort to pretend to be his boyfriend is incredibly simple: he has no time nor desire for dating, he is impatient with all the girls and boys fawning about him and only being attracted to his fame or money; and he absolutely needs to prove to his nosy twin brother Manwë that he is completely over his ex that he had been in a toxic relationship with for five years. Which, truth be told, he is not. He's not over it.

He wonders sometimes if it's even possible to be over someone like Fëanáro.

Manwë, however, has no business knowing any of this. As far as he is concerned, Melkor is quite happy in his new relationship with Mairon, whose appearance, coincidentally, is almost a total opposite of Fëanáro's. Melkor will never admit it even to himself, but he detests the thought that his brother may be worried about him. Especially now, when Manwë's wedding is around the corner. What a weird thought: his younger twin, the infamous playboy so beloved by everyone and unable to resist temptations, finally getting married and settling down. Eönwë must be delighted!

Chuckling to himself at the idea of his nephew's possible misfortune, Melkor returns to his work desk where a sheet is waiting for him to fill it with music. He waits for inspiration to strike. Quite predictably, it does not. It rarely ever does, ever since... ever since Fëanáro left him and returned to his wife, taking away with him all of Melkor's enjoyment of life and all of his musical genius, apparently. The accident and the whole composition theft debacle that followed the break-up are still haunting him even though the latter at least is already resolved. It was a year ago and still Melkor has not managed to produce anything of satisfactory quality. At least he's managed to fool the general public with a few hints and suggestions that he is working on something big, perhaps even bigger than _The Silmarils_ , but... soon enough, they will tire of waiting. Fame is a fleeting thing. Not long from now, the name of Melkor Bauglir may fade away from the memories of fans like all fads and trends are wont to do.

'Damn it all to the Void and beyond,' Melkor mutters under his breath and scratches at the palm of his gloved left hand with the right. He winces when the dull pain returns. He then makes himself a black coffee and writes an email to the escort's agency. At least this goes well and they promise to have the contract ready for him by tomorrow morning. With this chore done, Melkor resigns himself to an afternoon and evening of unproductive misery.

But even as he thinks that, he realizes there is a new melody sizzling, building up very slowly in his mind when he closes his eyes. Soft, too soft to convert into anything substantial yet – when he tries to play a few notes on the piano, the melody eludes him, escapes like a dream minutes after awakening, leaving nothing but smoke and a lingering heat behind. Still it returns to him later, when he is taking a shower, and he almost doesn't notice that he is humming it, that the melody is shaping up into something nigh-tangible, that the original gentle thrumming of the imaginary acoustic guitar is slowly gaining in momentum, accompanied by piano and violin, opening up into a theme-

Naked, with his hair dripping water and shampoo all over the floor, he runs back to his office and quickly scribbles down the notes, hurriedly so that he does not lose them before he is done. Only when everything is written down does he actually notice that his whole body is covered in goosebumps, he is shivering, his left hand is bleeding and raw, and the wooden panels around him are so wet they are bound to warp sooner rather than later. Pushing the sheet and pen away, Melkor starts giggling, then he bursts into a full-blown laugh that eventually makes his stomach cramp.

*

When they meet at three the following Wednesday in a fashionable coffee shop just around the corner from Melkor's apartment, Mairon is wearing a snug dark grey sweater with a deep v-neck cut, exposing his collarbones, and a pair of snug black jeans which nicely highlight his finer features. He's got a big fashionable bag and his hair is tied into a bun which looks as though it was carefully styled to appear messy, all to give Mairon a perfectly crafted casual look. Even his speech patterns are changed. Everything about this young man is as if he is playing a specific role. Yesterday, he was a stranger, a hired escort meeting his new customer. Today, he's Melkor's _precious flame_ , his boyfriend of the last six months.

They take a table in the far back of the shop and wait for the coffees they ordered – Melkor's a triple black espresso which could likely kill a less caffeine-addicted man, Mairon's a sickeningly sweet gingerbread latte marketed at teenage girls and hipsters since the beginning of the colder season. To onlookers, they must seem like an odd couple: a young man of no more than early twenty-something, sitting across the table from a shady-looking guy who is in his late thirties. Mindless of this fact, Mairon is grinning at him, leaning on his hands as he asks question after question about trivialities such as his hobbies, favourite colours or his dream vacation.

'Music; black and grey; somewhere deserted, possibly a site of some disaster,' Melkor replies patiently in one-liners. To be honest, the whole exchange is kind of boring to him even as he takes notes of Mairon's own answers (“fine crafts”, “black and red”, “sight-seeing tour of Mordor”), at least until Mairon hums thoughtfully in that chocolate-laced voice of his and asks,

'How did we meet?'

'Excuse me? Uh, I called your agency and asked to meet you in person, obviously. I mean, have you forgotten already? Nobody ever mentioned you had memory problems,' Melkor replies and is somewhat bewildered when Mairon laughs.

'No, silly,' says the escort, 'I meant, as boyfriends. We've got to have a first meeting story! Especially since you said your brother's bride-to-be will be there. She'll probably want to know such things.'

Melkor blinks. He did not think about that. He just assumed once he turns up with a boyfriend, everybody will be happy for him and will leave him alone. Now, he realizes that this plan had some serious flaws. It's obvious, once he gives it a thought: Manwë will likely want to know everything about his brother's new relationship. He's overprotective like that. Varda, too, might be interested. How has Melkor not thought about it? Thankfully, Mairon is more imaginative than him in this field. Perhaps it's included in his job description.

'How about this: we met in a music store. I was there to buy new strings for my guitar and you had some business there – what do you do when you go to a music store?'

'Ah – well, I often go just to look at the instruments, try out some melodies, things like that,' Melkor supplies instantly.

'Perfect,' Mairon decides. 'So, you were there, trying out some of your music ideas on a guitar – do you play the guitar? Oh, of course you do, you used to play in a rock band as guitarist, silly me – anyway, I heard you play and I loved it, but... but I was a fool about gaining your attention. I told you you were playing it wrong.'

'And was I?' Melkor asks, unable to help a small smile forming on his lips.

'That matters little,' replies Mairon, already very invested in the story he is spinning. 'Even if you were, I'd be unable to tell since it was your own music you were playing. Still, that at least got your attention, even though it hardly gained me your favour.'

'Only at first,' Melkor supplies. 'Then I challenged you to play it better. I was intrigued, but also my ego wouldn't stand to be insulted by a kid in a fluffy sweater. What did you do next?'

'I played my own rendition of your melody,' Mairon says. 'By the way, I can play three instruments, acoustic guitar included, so that base is covered. Then, when you heard me play-'

'I loved it,' Melkor finishes for him, 'but I acted as though I didn't. I left the shop in a dark mood,' he says and realizes how funny it is that at least one part of the lie is actually true to fact: many a times since the break-up, his frequent window-shopping in music stores ended with his mood considerably worsened.

'But that's no good! How did we end up dating if you left?' Mairon protests. 'Oh, no, wait, I know! We met again the week after that in a coffee shop – maybe... I know, maybe I was working there. And I wrote my number on your mocha cup because I'm a daring man. Imagine my surprise when you actually called me.'

Melkor chuckles. He can very well imagine the way Mairon could feign surprised delight because he has no doubt about the escort's acting skills. He is also faintly impressed with the story that Mairon came up with almost entirely by himself. It sounds legitimate: perfectly realistic, without any drama, a simple everyday romance story. Completely unlike Melkor's relationship with Fëanáro. They can work on the finer details later, during their flight to Valinor and then the ride from the Eldamar airport to Manwë's ridiculously huge and luxurious estate Taniquetil in the Pelori mountains which, technically speaking, also belong to the family. Being the black sheep of the most influential line in Valinor is interesting indeed, Melkor decides. At least he doesn't have to worry about the state of the mountain ecosystem or the influence of tourism on the population of mountain goats. He doesn't leave in a damn museum either.

'Won't they mind that I'm younger than you?' Mairon asks after their coffees arrive. He is not genuinely worried, but he sure appears to be.

'No, I think not,' Melkor replies and amusement is lacing his words. 'My brother is pretty lenient in such matters. He had a very... adventurous youth, you see. He caused quite a scandal in Valinor when he turned up home after a year's absence with a toddler in his arms. Eönwë's turning twenty-two this year and I hear he's not very happy with my brother's upcoming nuptials.'

'Nuptials,' Mairon teases, 'such an old-man word! You could've easily said _wedding,_ it would've sounded less ancient.'

'I'm thirty-eight,' Melkor protests half-heartedly. 'I'm not old. And _nuptials_ is a perfectly normal word. Many people use it. It's hardly my fault that you seem to have been raised in a barn.'

He smirks at Mairon's semi-offended expression and the adorable pout that follows. The banter, he realizes with a start, actually feels quite nice. Refreshing. It's been a long time since last he had such a natural interaction with someone who was not a sales clerk or his overprotective, nagging brother. Or said brother's kid who tends to call him on the phone at random times and whine about one thing or another. The problem is, he generally doesn't make friends. He has associates, colleagues, he has a manager and a PR specialist, he used to have an assistant; but he hardly remembers what it's like to make jokes and laugh at something another person said.

'Thirty-eight,' Mairon says thoughtfully. 'I thought you were younger. You _look_ younger. You're actually rather pretty for a guy who's almost forty.'

Melkor sputters. He is not sure if he is more offended at the being called _pretty_ or the painful reminder of the passage of time. He glares at Mairon when the younger man laughs and almost decides to stand up and leave. He's given no chance to because Mairon grasps his left hand with his own and squeezes.

His fingers are very warm, but his palm is not sweaty; Melkor feels the heat through the thin leather of the glove. The pads of Mairon's fingertips are thick and slightly rough with callouses. One of his fingernails is clipped much shorter than the others, as though it's been recently broken. Melkor would have expected an escort to have soft and perfectly manicured hands; the firm grip of Mairon's calloused hand feels – _painful –_ almost too real and Melkor feels a very unwarranted blush spreading across his cheeks.

'Don't run away,' Mairon asks softly. 'I promise not to call you pretty anymore,' he announces solemnly. There is a glimmer of amusement in his golden eyes. Taking a deep breath, Melkor tries to convince himself that everything is under control – his emotions are under control – his memories of calloused hands following a trail of dark bruises along the expanse of his pale skin, too, are under control-

He violently tears his hand away from Mairon's grasp, causing himself more pain with the rash action. 'This was a bad idea,' he says, speaking more to himself than to the escort. He closes his eyes and attempts to calm down, and all of a sudden his mind is drowning in a thick tide of a _violent_ melody which feels as if liquid fire on his senses.

Immediately he seeks out something, anything to write and he begins to transfer the music from his head into something tangible. Not a single thing could bring him out of his creative reverie; his vision swims and his head throbs, and the music bleeds from the pores in his skin onto paper napkins and, when they are not enough, onto the smooth surface of the table. The pencil he uses breaks under too much pressure and he frantically looks around for a replacement; somebody passes him a marker and he snatches it as though a lifeline. Time becomes an abstract idea as Melkor shapes the musical chaos inside of him, as he turns the melody around on itself to reach its truest depth which he then translates into the structured language of notes.

There's something liberating in letting it all out like this into a disorganized mess of scribbles and symbols which to an amateur may mean nothing and which in Melkor's eyes compose a story made out not of words but of sounds. When finally he steps back to look upon his handiwork in its entirety, Mairon is looking at him with a mixture of puzzlement and – admiration? - both of which are completely understandable in the situation. Because the music is... it's brilliant, Melkor thinks as the echoes of it still ring in his ears, as though memories of a long-forgotten dream; and long ago, so long it almost seems like it never happened, Fëanáro said he was at his most beautiful when creating.

'Sir? The table,' says somebody from the small crowd which has formed around him. Melkor's still a bit out of it, the afterglow of the creative surge makes him dizzy, so before he reacts, Mairon already has the situation under control; in mere moments, he convinces the girl in an employee uniform in the café's colours to call the manager in order to discuss the possible arrangements in terms of purchasing the spoiled piece of furniture.

  
  


In the end, it costs him about the price of four big lattes. The music written on the white surface of the table is, well, it's priceless. Melkor copies the notes to a more traditional medium as soon as he brings the table home with Mairon's help. He discovers with a bit of a start that he doesn't mind the younger man's presence in the apartment. Normally, he doesn't allow people in, especially when he's being creative. It convinces him that despite his reservations, he did make the right choice when he hired Mairon. After all, they'll be forced to spend an extended period of time in each other's company.

'Stop staring at me,' Mairon says impatiently from where he is seated on the grand rocking armchair, looking comfortable and cosy like he were at home. 'Stare at your precious notes instead. After the spectacle you made, I'm incredibly curious to hear the finished piece.'

'That won't happen any time soon,' Melkor warns. He didn't even notice he was staring. 'Why are you still here, anyway?' He asks because now that he wonders about it, he doesn't remember ever inviting the escort in.

'I'm moving in,' Mairon replies simply. Then, 'No, wait, listen! It have an idea. Everyone has different character traits which can't be easily described, little quirks and habits of everyday life. Things you wouldn't even notice about yourself, but others will,' he says.

'So?' Melkor inquires, frowning. He isn't sure where Mairon is going with the impromptu lecture.

'So, I need to live with you for a few days before we know each other well enough to put on a show in front of outsiders,' explains Mairon reasonably.

Melkor hesitates. The idea has merit, he can't deny that; and the apartment is certainly big enough for another person to move in. He isn't sure, however, if he is ready to share his safe habitat with a stranger, even if this stranger is someone he's paying to play his significant other. It's one thing to not mind Mairon's presence for a few hours while he's immersed in his work; it's a completely different matter whatsoever to accept that presence as something semi-permanent. It's a logical step, yes. But Melkor's not sure he is capable of taking it.

'Listen,' he begins and trails off.

Mairon gives him a measuring look. 'Too sudden?' He asks in a joking tone of voice, but his eyes are serious; it seems he realizes how unsteady ground he is threading and he's leaving the decision to Melkor.

It's this basic and simple respect for his boundaries that makes Melkor say, 'So be it.'

'Oh, good,' Mairon says and grins. 'Because I already put my toothbrush in the bathroom,' he adds playfully.

He's nothing like Melkor expected.

*

It's not like Mairon's moving in brings along many changes. The escort either owns precious little in terms of clothing and personal items, or he simply doesn't feel the need to bring any of his possessions along. An additional toothbrush in the cup in the bathroom, a new bottle of shampoo and a tube of luxurious conditioner in the shower stall, a pair of heavy boots and a leather jacket in the hall: those are the only signs of another inhabitant in the apartment.

That and the cleaning.

'I honestly can't tell if I should admire your survival skills or fear for your sanity. How did you manage to turn this place into a garbage dump?' Asks the younger man in a joking tone which is quite obviously contradicted by the fact that he's holding a giant, half-filled trash bag. It's his first morning, but already Melkor observes the gradual disappearance of many months worth of mess.

Melkor has to admit that the apartment is a bit run down. He's always been a bit of a slob and used to drive Fëanáro crazy, which was one of the reasons why they never decided to move in together. After the break-up, he stopped caring about cleaning whatsoever. He's not so bad as to have food leftovers scattered around, but there's the odd empty pizza box here and there, and torn music sheets, pens and pencils broken into pieces in bouts of fury when he couldn't create, shattered glasses and empty alcohol bottles... all covered in layers of dust and the occasional spider webs. Only the big music room jokingly dubbed _the office_ is more-or-less tidy, save for the trash can overflowing with crumpled paper. It's the only place in the apartment where Melkor actually spends time, he even sleeps there on the sofa most nights, which is why it doesn't look so much like a post-hurricane site.

'You don't have to do the cleaning, it's not what I'm paying you for,' Melkor mutters as the younger man dives under the living room table and comes up with a long-forgotten unopened bag of crackers, a phone case, a pair of socks and a fork.

'Actually, you're not paying me at all yet,' Mairon reminds him and cautiously sniffs the socks. He scrunches his nose comically. 'Toss these to the laundry pile, please,' he commands and moves on to dig for trash behind the sofa.

But besides the sudden cleaning revolution, it's been proving surprisingly easy to share living space with Mairon. Last night, the man made Melkor a light dinner from what he found in the fridge, then took a short shower and went to sleep at ten. He was hesitant at first to take the bedroom, but he relented after Melkor assured him that he prefers sleeping in the office anyway. In the morning, he must have gotten up long before Melkor even dreamed of waking up, and he made perfect pancakes for breakfast. And coffee. Great, delicious coffee.

'I'm not? Paying you, I mean,' Melkor asks after a moment when Mairon re-emerges from behind the sofa with an armful of power cables, a pair of broken headphones and a lighter.

'No, you're not. The contract states that our cooperation begins next week when we leave for Valinor,' the younger man informs him casually. He's got a dust bunny caught in his hair. Melkor reaches out and removes it for him.

'Oh? Thanks, love,' Mairon says and stands on his toes to lean in and kiss Melkor's cheek.

In the minute it takes Melkor to remember that it's a part of their act, the escort returns to his interrupted task as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Melkor shakes his head and retreats to the comfortable seclusion of his office. He's so unused to random displays of affection and pet names, Mairon's casual employ of such acts makes him uneasy. It was never like this with Fëanáro; their relationship was never domestic, nor was it affectionate: rather, he remembers it as a wildfire which easily devoured all rational thought and left nothing but smoke and ash in its wake. They made music and they made love, and sometimes one was the same as the other. Then, as suddenly as it started, it was over; and Melkor was left with his life and his soul burned to the ground.

He still misses Fëanáro. It's sad and pathetic, especially after that hell of a battle over _The Silmarils_ ; and to be honest, it's no wonder Manwë is worried for him. He's not alright. He doesn't think he knows how to be alright. He's lost, and now, in the middle of all that, of all of his problems with himself, Mairon is-

Melkor doesn't know what to think.

  
  


There's a knock on the door after some time; Melkor realizes with a bit of a surprise that he must have fallen asleep, because the sound startles him awake. He rubs his eyes and clears his throat, then walks to the door and opens it while attempting unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

'Oh, you were asleep?' Asks Mairon, frowning. He is dressed in a pair of loose-fitting jeans and Melkor's washed-out black t-shirt which is slightly too big on him. His hair is damp and styled into a loose braid. He's – attractive, Melkor thinks. Very, very attractive.

'Just napping,' he mutters and clears his throat again for it suddenly feels dry. 'You, ah. You needed something?'

'Nothing important,' the escort replies and smiles as though shyly. His freckles are distracting. 'Just, I've made lunch. Nothing fancy, I worked with what you had in the fridge so it's just paprika pockets with blue cheese...'

'Paprika pockets?' Melkor inquires and follows Mairon to the kitchen. The smell coming from the oven makes his mouth water. He hasn't even realized he was hungry.

Mairon grins. 'Take a seat, food is coming right up,' he announces and grabs an apron from the hanger. Melkor didn't even know he owned any aprons. Or hangers. Or an oven, for that matter. But the spacious kitchen looks nothing like he is used to; for him, kitchen is just that place where the dish washer can be found. The transformation from that to the place out of cooking shows is incredible, and the sharp fragrance of spices and blue cheese in the air only accentuates the impression.

When Mairon sets the plate in front of him, Melkor licks his lips. The paprika pockets turn out to be chicken breasts stuffed with red, yellow and green peppers, bathed in a rich sauce of melted blue cheese and thick cream. Served on top of basil leaves, sprinkled with fresh parsley, the dish looks like something out of a high-class restaurant. If that's _nothing fancy_ to Mairon, Melkor wonders what the escort would actually consider fancy.

'Wow,' he says, 'this looks and smells amazing. But, you didn't have to cook. We could have ordered something,' he adds hastily.

But Mairon shakes his head. 'I like cooking, it's relaxing. And I wanted to do something to thank you for allowing me to stay,' he explains. He takes a seat across from Melkor and doesn't question the fact that Melkor's left hand is still gloved even now. 'Well, what are you waiting for? Try it! I wonder if you like the taste.'

Melkor nods and tucks in. The rich flavour of the blue cheese assaults his taste buds, followed by the mildness of the chicken breast. The softness of the chicken contrasts pleasantly with the slightly crispy peppers. He doesn't recognize the herbs used in the dish, but they serve to wonderfully complement the individual ingredients and to combine them into one unique feast of flavours. It's – one of the best things Melkor's ever had. It's a small symphony of taste.

'Where did you learn to cook like that?' He asks in wonder.

Mairon swallows his own mouthful and laughs. 'Oh, here and there,' he replies non-committally. 'I assume you like it?'

'Like it?' Melkor shakes his head in disbelief. 'It's incredible. You really made this from what was in the fridge?'

'No. I took the wine from the cabinet,' says Mairon teasingly. 'Now, stop talking and eat it while it's hot. The cheese will make it all go soggy if you let it cool.'

They continue to eat in silence. Melkor doesn't remember when was the last time he had a meal with someone, not to mention a meal which was not take-out. Possibly not since he left Valinor many years ago. All those fancy parties he is sometimes forced to attend only serve to dampen his appetite, and with Fëanáro they used to eat whatever was quickest to make or to order. The thought of Mairon taking the time to prepare all this just for Melkor's benefit is unexpectedly heart-warming.

*

'I wanted to thank you,' says the younger man once they're both finished eating.

'What for?' Melkor means to ask, but he remains silent. He can see that Mairon is as if hesitant. But eventually, after putting their plates into the washer, the younger man sighs and begins to talk.

'I took advantage of your kindness yesterday,' he says, facing the kitchen window instead of looking at Melkor. 'I made you accept my moving in, I even talked you into thinking it's a good idea. The truth is, I had nowhere else to go.

'I had a big argument with my father a few weeks ago and I had to move out. A friend took me in, but he lives with his girlfriend and his girlfriend hates me, so. I had this client, Luthien, nice woman, prettier than I've ever seen, and she let me crash at hers...'

He laughs bitterly. 'Apparently, she decided that my policy of _no sex_ did not apply to her and her husband. I grabbed my things and ran as fast as I could. Since then, I've mostly been sleeping in the agency, but the boss threatened to throw me out-'

'You can stay here,' Melkor interrupts him. 'I already agreed to it anyway, and it'll be a good opportunity for us to get to know each other, just like you said. I really need this to work, you know. If we don't convince my brother, he'll become unbearable.'

Mairon opens his mouth to say something and Melkor shushes him with a laugh.

'No, really, it's cool. But what's with the shirt? I'm pretty sure it's as old as you are and you pulled it out of my wardrobe.'

'Well, I only have two dress shirts and a suit. I keep them at the agency,' explains Mairon sheepishly. 'Uh. If you mind me wearing your clothes...'

'No, no,' Melkor assures him. 'It's cute. And probably something couples do, isn't it? I'm pretty sure I've seen a quote on the Internet that guys love their girlfriends wearing their shirts.'

Mairon frowns. 'I'm not the girlfriend here,' he announces firmly. 'Do you want more wine? Or do you have work to do? I'm not sure how you like to spend your afternoons.'

'I laze about until inspiration strikes,' Melkor admits. He reaches for the bottle and refills his and Mairon's glasses.

They drink and make small talk. At one point, they relocate to Melkor's office and occupy the couch. Melkor's head feels nicely heavy and Mairon's voice is pleasantly deep as he softly talks about the adventures he had with one of his past clients. Slowly, Melkor sinks lower on the couch until he's lying on his side, with Mairon's lap serving as his pillow. He sighs in contentment when the younger man's fingers find their way into his hair and begin to gently massage his scalp.

Meanwhile, Mairon is still talking and his voice flows smoothly like a lover's caress. 'I almost killed a man once when I worked for that lady. It was an accident, of course; I only pushed him because I was in a hurry. I couldn't know that in his over-excitement he would swallow the olive and that it would get stuck. Fortunately, there was a doctor in the ballroom, but it made for quite a funny spectacle: the doctor was dressed as a penguin and the choking patient as a polar bear- I am boring you, am I not? You're falling asleep on me.'

'Go on,' murmurs Melkor, letting his eyelids slide closed. The fingers in his hair pause in their movements, so he makes a small groan of protest. It turns into a pleased half-purr when Mairon runs his fingers through the black tresses and begins to absent-mindedly play with them: he brush them with his hand and braids them, then undoes the braid and weaves three separate plaits in its stead.

'This can be our thing,' the younger man says thoughtfully. 'In the afternoons, after I come home from work. We eat together, then relax on the couch. You like it when I play with your hair. Many days, you would just fall asleep in my lap. I would then read a book and continue to stroke your hair.'

'When do you mention the part where I'm drunk on expensive wine,' mumbles Melkor in jest. He hisses when Mairon pulls on his hair, but it doesn't really hurt. He likes it.

'I didn't know you would get drunk so easily,' says Mairon, gently scratching at the nape of Melkor's neck. Melkor leans into the caress, moaning softly. 'You're very sensitive to touch,' he observes in what sounds like fond amusement. 'I wonder...' he trails off.

Melkor opens his eyes to look at him in question.

'Oh, nothing,' the younger man assures him and leans down to plant a quick kiss on his forehead. 'Sleep, my love. A nap will do you good. We can talk more later.'

  
  


It's dark outside when Melkor wakes up. He feels – strange; his body is heavy and he's as though in a haze, but his mind is fresh and full of ideas. A tune is dancing on the edges of his consciousness and he knows he can still chase it as long as he reaches the piano in time; so with an immense effort, he disentangles himself from the blanket and gets up to his feet. He looks to Mairon who gives him a wordless smile; the tune plays louder, rises in power in a bold crescendo and Melkor walks over to the piano, slams the keys with the first notes and allows the music to flow and fill the comfortable silence of the room.

He writes it down in the evening when the score is still fresh under his fingertips, and afterwards Mairon brings fresh coffee for the both of them.

'I can see you won't be sleeping tonight,' the younger man says, 'and I think I'll accompany you, if you don't mind. You're... interesting to watch.'

Melkor doesn't mind. In fact, he finds it easier to work when Mairon is around. The younger man sits cross-legged on the sofa and reads a book on the psychology of depression. He doesn't attempt to engage Melkor in a conversation; he sips on his coffee which he has in the largest mug Melkor has ever seen – definitely not one of his – and highlights sections in the book with a neon pink marker.

'Are you a student?' Melkor asks much later. He can hear the ancient music box clock in the living room begin its soft chime for midnight. He hates that thing, but he doesn't think he will ever be able to truly get rid of it. Fëanáro gave it to him before they started sleeping together. He bought it on impulse in an antique shop he stumbled upon in Eldamar during his second tour and fixed it to play one of Melkor's very old and very embarrassing compositions, and then he gave it to Melkor for fun. There was no occasion, no explanation: just a joke gift from a friend to another friend who would certainly appreciate its irony. It wasn't ever supposed to become Melkor's treasure.

Mairon looks up at him and takes a sip of his cold coffee before he replies. 'Yes,' he says, 'at the University of United Beleriand. Psychiatry major,' he adds with understandable pride in his voice.

Melkor is obviously impressed. The University of United Beleriand is well-renowned for its incredibly difficult entrance exams and the demanding course programs regardless of the chosen degree. The drop-out rate is astoundingly high, but those who survive rarely go below ninety percent on their final exams. Because quality is expensive, the admission fee as well as the yearly costs are the highest in the entire Middle-earth, averaging up to twenty thousand mirians per trimester, living costs not included. In comparison, Melkor's thorough music education in Eldamar's snobbish conservatory required twenty-five thousand mirians per school year and was considered costly even by the higher classes.

'How do you afford it?' Melkor asks incredulously. Then he thinks on it, shakes his head and asks a different question. 'How do you find time for it between your escort jobs?'

'Mostly, I don't sleep,' replies Mairon in good humour. 'I go with the personalized coursework, thanks to that I only have to go to exams in most cases. I also attend obligatory lectures on Monday mornings and Thursday evenings. I try to plan my escort jobs around that. To be honest, the hardest thing is convincing myself that it's all worth the sleepless nights,' he laughs.

'That's really tough,' Melkor says. He remembers his own youth, most of which he spent having fun and wreaking havoc at various family gatherings. Sleepless nights were usually the result of heavy drinking and stupid bets with Tulkas, that giant oaf who used to have a crush on him back in their conservatory years before he dropped out and joined Valinor's army instead.

'It is tough, yes,' admits Mairon cheerfully, 'but it's nothing I can't handle. I'm in my last year of generic. If everything goes well, I'll begin my specialization next year. That's three years, then the international exams, then the senior specialization, doctorate degree, senior apprenticeship in a psychiatric ward, then the residency and in fifteen years I'll be a fully-fledged psychiatrist.'

It's difficult to tell if he's being sarcastic or serious, so Melkor simply stares at him for a moment. Then, when Mairon doesn't follow up, he asks, 'Fifteen years?'

'Yeah, well. When I was deciding on a degree, I still had my parents' full support. Father wasn't really happy with my choice, he wanted me to take over his fine craft business, but I'm not really the artsy type. That's more like my brother. Anyway, father finally agreed,' the younger man sighs, 'so I wasn't really supposed to end up as an escort.'

'What happened?' Melkor inquires. 'If you don't mind telling me,' he adds hastily, sitting down next to Mairon on the couch.

'You should know, you're my boyfriend after all,' says Mairon and pats him on the cheek with a lazy smirk. 'I got in trouble. Financial trouble. A good friend of mine took a loan and had me co-sign it as an endorser. Turns out, he had no intention of paying it off. He grabbed the money – two hundred grand, can you imagine that? - and took off eastward. Nobody knows where he is.'

'Damn. What a dick,' Melkor comments acidly.

'Yeah. Of course I only found out that he wasn't paying after the debt collectors got on my case. I was in my first year. I panicked, because they threatened to collect my tuition fees,' Mairon continues. He finishes off his coffee and reaches out to place the mug on the table. Melkor's shirt that he's wearing rides up to reveal a glimpse of a nicely toned stomach. The skin there is freckled too.

'I got this job because I've always been popular with the ladies and gents. My parents didn't know until a few weeks ago. My father was livid. He didn't listen to my explanations, he said he didn't raise me to become a whore. I got mad, I told him I didn't want anything to do with him and he replied that in that case, I had five minutes to move out. There, my tragic back story. Did you enjoy it?' Mairon asks teasingly.

Melkor frowns. 'So you're left alone with the debt and tuition fees? With nowhere to live?'

'The debt's mostly paid off,' Mairon assures him. 'Believe me, I get enough clients to cover all my needs. I just need a few days to find somewhere the rent isn't sky high.'

'You can stay here as long as you like,' Melkor offers. 'The place is big enough. I hardly ever use most of the space. I'm holed up in here most of the time.'

'It's appreciated, really,' Mairon says, 'but you don't even know me. I know I'm easy to be around, but that's because you're my client-'

'Not right now, I'm not. I'm not paying you yet,' Melkor reminds him with a grin. He likes the surprised chuckle the younger man lets out at being called out on his earlier comment. He... actually likes a lot of things about Mairon. He thinks he could befriend him. Sharing the apartment could become a permanent thing. Why not? Many people have room-mates.

'We can talk about this after we return from Valinor,' Mairon suggests. 'Right now, I have to finish this chapter on apathy. Go and make some music while I read.'

 


	2. The prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between meeting the family, sightseeing, accepting awkward gifts and being worried when his nephew goes missing, Melkor realizes he's royally fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things happen fast and by things I mean both the events of this chapter AND the fact that I managed to edit it so quickly. Enjoy and all.

By the time they leave Beleriand on Manwë's private plane which is about as extravagant as could be expected, Melkor has approximately five thick notebooks filled with music. It's unprofessional, but he prefers to write his scores on checker print paper. He transfers them to proper stave sheets later, when he's done editing them and re-writing whole pages to match his transforming conception. To anyone but him, the scribbles filling his notebooks would look completely illegible: sections crossed out, written over in a different colour, random post-it notes placed here and there with comments like “expanded in 3” or “change to 6 or 5, match 2”. Writing like this is a habit he picked up from Fëanáro a long time ago, when they were friends and rivals. It's too convenient to discard the method just because it reminds him of a painful past. Everything reminds him of his past with Fëanáro, so it hardly matters if he has one more thing to add to the pile.

Mairon's companionship, he thinks, has made these last couple of days so productive. The younger man has dedicated hours of his time to cooking for Melkor and keeping his apartment clean. He also enforced the tradition of lazy afternoons when he would pick up his books and stroke Melkor's hair until both of them fell asleep. It's _their thing_ and Melkor actually isn't sure if Mairon really enjoys it or if he's playing his part so well. Either way, he came to be the most relaxed he's been since before his relationship crashed and burned.

'You know, I haven't been to Eldamar since my family moved to Beleriand,' Mairon says, stretching out his legs comfortably. He's wearing Melkor's old jeans which fit him perfectly after he shortened them, and one of his oversized hoodies which is even more oversized on him. He looks smaller dressed like this. Melkor knows it's just an illusion. The previous evening, he walked in on Mairon while the younger man was exiting the shower. There's definitely nothing small about Mairon Aulëndil.

'You're from Eldamar?' Melkor asks, pretending he isn't blushing at the memory of Mairon's dripping wet body. Of course he finds the escort attractive; that's what first caught his attention when he was skimming through the agency folder for a prospective employee.

He just didn't expect to see so much of him. Or to find all of him so enticing.

'Almaren,' Mairon replies, unaware of Melkor's somewhat dirty thoughts. Even now, he's armed with one of his difficult books which contain words normal people don't ever use in conversation. It's closed and placed between the armrest and Mairon's thigh.

Melkor reaches for it absently and briefly flips the pages. 'How do you understand this? I don't even know what half of it means,' he complains unreasonably.

The younger man laughs and retrieves the book from his hands. 'Believe me, it wasn't easy to learn how to decode it,' he assures. The look on his face softens as he continues to smile at Melkor. For some reason, it makes Melkor's heart skip a beat – he's nervous, why is he nervous? - before Mairon grins and flicks him on the nose.

'So, love, you never told me: what is Taniquetil like? I'm just a peasant, I've never been,' the younger man asks curiously.

Melkor blinks. Then, 'Oh. Well. I'm not sure what it's like now,' he says sheepishly. 'The last time I was there, Valinor was covered in snow and of course Taniquetil was no different. It was nice, actually. Eönwë forced me outside most of the time because he knows I love snow. We built a snow-dick. It was probably two meters tall,' he laughs at the memory.

'Childish,' Mairon comments in a teasing tone.

'Well, I can't help it if Eönwë is immature,' Melkor says, attempting to defend himself. 'It's not like building snow penises is the only thing we did. We went skiing, he taught me to ice-skate, we even made snow angels. Before that, I was in a bad place. That winter in Taniquetil probably saved my life.'

'That Eönwë – your nephew, right? - he sounds like a nice guy,' Mairon notes.

'He's a brat,' Melkor counters immediately, but his voice betrays his fondness for his nephew. He laughs. 'Oh, believe you me: Eönwë is a right bastard. He's arrogant and always full of himself. He's also stubborn like a mule. You'll also find that he already hates you.'

'What? Why?' Asks Mairon, confused.

'He's very protective of me. That's his dad's influence, Manwë's also overprotective even though he's the younger twin. Since Fëanáro,' Melkor trails off.

He still hasn't told Mairon the details of his past relationship and especially of the way it came to an abrupt end. The public never learned the whole story because neither of them wanted the dirt to be dragged out to the light; but Melkor knows that the general opinion stands that he and Fëanáro slept together and then had a fight.

It wasn't like that at all.

'I won't ask. You'll tell me when you're ready,' Mairon assures him, possibly for the benefit of the stewardess who's come to bring them drinks. When she retreats, she fails to be secretive as she keeps giving them curious looks. To give her something to think about, Melkor leans down and gives Mairon's lips a little peck.

'Thank you, my precious flame,' he says affectionately. It sounds foreign to his ears, both the pet name and the affection, but apparently it's convincing because the stewardess storms off, blushing furiously.

Mairon shakes his head with a grin. 'That's cute,' he says. Then, 'Damn. I'm nervous,' he confesses sheepishly. 'I know I can do this, but I'm nervous. I guess it works to our advantage...'

Melkor nods. 'I think it's natural, given the circumstances. At least Manwë will definitely think so. He's a softy. Don't worry. We'll be fine.'

He hopes so.

  


The rest of the plane ride passes in companionable silence; Mairon uses the time to read about something called _autosarcophagy_ while Melkor corrects some notes in the newest piece of his music with a purple pen. Somehow, they end up holding hands; it starts with Mairon absent-mindedly petting the back of Melkor's right hand with his left much like he would normally stroke his hair and ends with their fingers twined. Neither of them comments on this later, but the plane staff keep looking at them funny up until the landing. It adds to their credibility, so Melkor doesn't mind them. Apparently Mairon is of the same opinion because he also doesn't do anything to change the situation. They are still holding hands when they leave the plane at the Eldamar National Airport of Valinor and Almaren.

Manwë's driver picks them up from the airport and the rest of the journey goes by rather quickly. As they pass different landmarks, Mairon asks about them, sounding genuinely curious. Melkor thinks it's adorable and he answers all of the younger man's questions to the best of his knowledge. Once or twice, he makes things up just to see if Mairon would catch him at it. The escort flicks him on the nose and demands the true description each time it happens.

Actually, it's a bit terrifying how well Mairon has learned to read him over the few days they spent in each other's presence. It might be because the younger man's a psychiatrist-in-training, but he's shown some incredible insight into the way Melkor's mind works even though he's only known him for roughly a week or less. He's able to tell when Melkor needs to be alone just by looking at him, he knows when it's okay to engage him in a spirited discussion about music genres, he seems to always correctly guess when there's a melody beginning to grow in Melkor's mind: in such moments he makes sure there's something Melkor can freely write on around, regardless of where they are. It only took him a couple of days around Melkor to memorize his morning habits and to learn exactly how he likes his coffee; and in the meantime, Melkor has only found an enigma in the younger man.

Because he never knows which of his interactions with Mairon are genuine and which are just an act. He's not even sure about when he's playing the part of a boyfriend himself because, well. He's smitten. It's not like he can help it: Mairon is very good at pretending to be his caring partner and Melkor's affection-starved brain has trouble separating the role from the cold reality that it's all just a paid show for Manwë's sake.

Still, he enjoys the warmth of Mairon's long calloused fingers wrapped around his when they are sitting in the limo, how he can feel the younger man's body heat even through the thin leather of the glove; and he likes how they squeeze his hand somewhat nervously when the car comes to a stop once they reach the destination.

'It's going to be fine,' he assures the younger man in a scenic whisper. Mairon bites his lower lip and nods before taking a deep breath and getting out of the limo.

 

The first person to greet them on the parking lot is Eönwë who runs past Mairon without a second glance and throws himself into Melkor's arms with the grace of a young mumakil. Melkor is prepared for the assault and easily catches his nephew mid-air, whirls him around, sets him down and then accepts his bear hug.

'I missed you, you big bad wolf,' says Eönwë when he finally lets go. His ashen hair has grown longer since their last meeting in winter and he's got a new tattoo on his collarbone. Melkor is sure Manwë is in despair about it.

'Yeah, I missed you too, riding hood,' he assures his nephew warmly. He really loves the kid.

Grinning, he motions for Mairon to come closer. 'Now,' he says, 'this is my precious flame. Mairon, meet Eönwë, my almost foster kid.'

'Hi,' Mairon says meekly. This has to be an act. He's never sounded like this before.

'So you're the guy who's fucking my uncle?' Asks Eönwë. He looks Mairon over with obvious contempt. 'I guess you're kinda pretty at least,' he shrugs. 'Ai, you need to come see my new bike. Dad's threatening to shoot it to space if he ever sees me riding it!' He announces to Melkor, grabbing his arm as if to pull him along.

'No, no, wait, kid, wait! I've just arrived, slow down, slow down!' Melkor protests. 'The bike's not going to move on its own, let me at least greet your dad before you drag me off!' As if on cue, Manwë arrives with Varda close after. Melkor catches Mairon's hand in a grasp and leads him to meet the heir of the Taniquetil Estate. He'll deal with Eönwë's attitude later, he decides.

Manwë hasn't changed at all. He still looks much younger than Melkor despite being the same age, even though his hair is naturally completely white. His skin has a healthy tan which indicates that he's been spending lots of time in the mountains, possibly tracking some goats or eagles like he is wont to do whenever he has a moment to spare. Unlike his son, he doesn't appear to have any new tattoos, but that doesn't mean there aren't any; Manwë may pretend to be every inch the good son, but he has a secret rebellious streak to match Melkor's.

Varda, on the other hand, looks completely different from what Melkor remembered. It's understandable, because the last time he saw her, she was fifteen and he had just shorn off a whole handful of her beautiful fair hair. That was over twenty years ago. Her hair has since grown back and she wears it down like before. Unlike in school, she actually smiles warmly at Melkor and Mairon as they approach.

'You really have grown handsome,' she informs Melkor in greeting.

'See? I told you I would! I bet you're regretting not marrying me when you had a chance,' Melkor replies teasingly. Varda laughs as Manwë gathers his twin brother into a hearty embrace.

'You look well,' Manwë comments, patting Melkor's shoulder once he lets go.

'It's all thanks to Mairon,' Melkor lies smoothly as he presents the younger man. 'Manwë, Varda, if you please: meet Mairon Aulëndil, my boyfriend.'

'Oh my, you're a cradle robber!' Varda jokes to Melkor before she extends her hand for Mairon to shake. 'Hello, Mr. Aulëndil – may I call you Mairon? Thank you! - my name is Varda Elentári.'

'It's a pleasure to meet you,' Mairon assures her with a nervous smile.

Manwë doesn't bother with etiquette; when it's his turn for introduction, he simply gives Mairon the same kind of bear hug he'd given his brother. 'I welcome you to the family house,' he announces.

'Come on in, the both of you,' he urges them a moment later, 'I'm sure you're both hungry and tired. How was the flight?'

'Boring,' says Melkor drily. Mairon's fingers around his squeeze as if to reproach him. 'What?' He asks the younger man.

'Be nice,' Mairon mutters under his breath. When Melkor pouts, he adds, 'No, you're not cute. You're ridiculous. Be nice!'

'I like him,' Varda comments in a scenic whisper.

'I don't,' replies Eönwë darkly, but it's not like anyone expected otherwise. Still, Melkor offers his nephew a wink, hoping to brighten his mood. Surprisingly, it works like a charm.

  


The room they get is Melkor's usual: the spacious bedroom slash living room that used to be his and which is now dubbed “special guest room” where he's the only person to count as special enough to get it during visits, and the giant adjoining bathroom with a hot tub. The room also has a big private balcony with the view of the mountains and Valinor's capital city of Eldamar far below. There's only one problem, as far as Melkor is concerned: the room has one bed.

'I'm sorry, I forgot,' he mutters to Mairon when they're left alone to take a breather after the travel. 'I can sleep on the floor,' he offers.

Mairon looks at him like he's said something very stupid. 'Why would you do that? Look at the size of that thing. You could fit my whole company on it and you'd still have a decent shot at stretching out your limbs. Unless you actually find sleeping in the same bed with another man repulsive?...'

'I'm gay,' Melkor replies quickly.

Mairon nods. 'I know. Or rather, I suspected,' he admits.

'Because I hired you?' Melkor asks as he sits on the bed. He's forgotten how amazingly comfortable it is. He needs to buy one like this to his apartment. Will it fit into the office, though? He makes a mental list of furniture he would have to shuffle around for it to happen.

'No. Because when you see me shirtless, you can't help but stare. You're not subtle, Melkor,' says the younger man cheerfully.

Melkor glares at him and throws one of the pillows at him. He misses by a mile.

'Hey, don't look at me like that! I don't mind you staring at my chest or anywhere else, really,' Mairon announces with a cheeky grin. 'I get it, you know. I'm attractive and you're single, it's no wonder your eyes wander.'

'Just shut up already,' Melkor groans and falls back onto the bed in shame and resignation. It's embarrassing to be caught admiring someone's physique. Being ridiculed for it is more than he can take at the moment. He's at a loss for ways of retaliating against the younger man's good humour. He's also starving and, he realizes with a frown at the bad timing, horny. It must be all that thinking about wet dark-skinned men in naught but a towel wrapped around the hips-

'I hate you,' he informs Mairon who laughs at his misery. 'No, seriously. I hate you. You're the worst.'

'Yes, I am aware,' says the younger man and sits down next to him on the bed, cross-legged. 'But I'm not the one who ogles unsuspecting people.'

'I don't _ogle_!' Exclaims Melkor, scandalized so much that he immediately sits up.

Mairon kisses him.

For a moment, his mind goes blank. _It's just an act_ , he thinks, then, _Why is he acting? It's just the two of us here, he doesn't have to act..._ He doesn't know if he should respond, he doesn't know _how_ to respond, but the younger man is not deterred by his inaction. He licks insistently at the seam of Melkor's lips and finally wins entrance when Melkor breathes in; and his taste is just like his voice, rich and deep and seductive, overpowering Melkor's confused senses so easily that he simply – gives in to the sensation, closes his eyes and sighs soundlessly-

Then the door falls open all of a sudden and Eönwë barges right in. 'Uncle, dinner's ready, are you going to co-'

The words die in his throat as he beholds the scene playing out on the bed. Mairon retreats with a little gasp, as though surprised, and Melkor, genuinely startled at the intrusion, looks up at his nephew almost apologetically.

'We're going to be a bit late,' he says hoarsely, clears his throat and repeats: 'We'll be late. Sorry, kid, we got, uh, side-tracked.'

'I can see that,' Eönwë replies coolly.

'Well, I can't help it if your uncle is irresistible,' Mairon comments and briefly strokes Melkor's cheek. It's pretty clear that he must have heard Eönwë coming long before the door opened, thus the kiss. It was just for show. A part of their gig. A part of what he's being paid for. His job. 'I'll try to keep my hands to myself for now, though. I promise.'

'Yeah. You do that,' mutters Eönwë, glaring at him. The animosity he is harbouring for Mairon would be much funnier if the situation didn't feel so awkward. Melkor, not for the first time, decides that this whole plan of hiring an escort to play his boyfriend was terrible.

He should have at least chosen someone less attractive.

  


Dinner is slightly less tense than it could have been thanks to the fact that Mairon and Eönwë are seated far enough away from each other for the atmosphere not to become hostile. Melkor still feels rather foolish for having believed for a moment that the kiss was something else than it was; Mairon, however, seems to be having the time of his life. Ever since they arrived in the dining hall, he's been talking animatedly with Varda and mostly Manwë about the wonders of Valinor, the memories he has of his childhood in Almaren and, much later, as they wait for the dessert to be served, about Melkor's younger days.

'He was such a notorious rebel,' Manwë recalls, looking at his brother with a fond chuckle. 'He had to be transferred three times during middle school because he refused to adhere to the rules. When he started his music school, he became even worse. Once, he stole the key to the school radio station's broadcasting studio, locked himself inside and gave an hour long lecture about freedom, explaining how the school regulations are only set in place to limit the students' right to express themselves. As a result, he was in detention until the end of the school year... and he almost got elected for student council president.'

'I remember that!' Varda exclaims. 'It all started out as a protest against the candidate requirements, because they were formed in such a way that only the students from second year onwards could be considered. The first years spread the word among themselves, and then the others also caught on. All in all, Melkor actually would have won, because roughly sixty percent of the student body voted for him.'

'But I wasn't a legitimate, nominated candidate, so those votes were counted as invalid,' Melkor supplies.

'That's unfair,' Eönwë comments, frowning. 'You won fair and square! They should have made an exception.'

'Real world doesn't care about fairness, riding hood,' Melkor says and grins at Eönwë. 'Don't worry, I didn't mind. It's not like I wanted to be president of the council. I would've had to do some actual work!'

'Anyway, Tulkas was elected so Melkor became basically untouchable. Tulkas was his first boyfriend,' Manwë informs Mairon in a scenic whisper.

'He was never – he was not my boyfriend,' Melkor protests. 'Get it right! He had a crush on me. I liked him as a friend and as the guy who always brought me extra food from the cafeteria when I was in detention. That's not dating.'

'What does count as dating by your standards?' Asks Manwë curiously.

Melkor purses his lips and doesn't reply. Mairon, however, decides to answer the question with a completely made up anecdote about one of their first dates.

'He invited me out, but he refused to tell me where we were going. He said it was going to be a surprise, so I tried not to pester him too much about it. I should have, though, because when he came to get me on that evening, Melkor was dressed in a black suit and basically looked like royalty while I stood there at the door in my jeans and the faded band t-shirt he lent me, feeling like a fool. Turned out that he was taking me to the opera. It was supposed to be my first time seeing the famous rendition of _Ainulindale_ , starring Melian of Doriath with the United Beleriand National Orchestra _._ '

'But you had time to get changed, right?' Manwë asks.

Mairon grins at that. 'I did, but I was a heathen back then. I didn't own a single suit. I all but begged Melkor to drop me and go by himself, but he would have none of it. Do you know what he did?'

'He miraculously found a suit rental for you?' Varda suggests.

'Or he procured a tailor who agreed to adjust one of his suits for you? I mean, I would do that,' Manwë adds somewhat sheepishly.

Eönwë doesn't say a thing. He's studying his tea cup and pretending he doesn't care.

'Neither,' Mairon replies. 'No, he did something even better: he changed into jeans and a t-shirt as well. We went to the Metropolitan Opera dressed like kids for a third rate rock concert,' he finishes with a grin, causing Varda to burst into nigh-hysterical giggles and Manwë to almost shout in righteous outrage. Even Eönwë stares at them wide-eyed, such serious is the degree of their invented crime against the snobbish and elitist world of classical music.

'They barely let us in, and that's only because I'm rich and famous,' Melkor says, deciding that the story needs some of his input for the sake of realism.

'That's preposterous and I am ashamed to be your twin,' Manwë announces in a dead serious tone. His bright blue eyes, however, are twinkling in amusement. His lip twitches.

 _He's happy for me_ , Melkor realizes and feels a small pang of guilt at deceiving his brother. But it's for the better. He can still remember how worried Manwë was for him right after Fëanáro left. Even before the thing with _The Silmarils_ came up, Manwë begged him to return home lest he do something stupid. His fears were not unwarranted; Melkor contemplated many ideas back then, most of which seem idiotic as he thinks about it now. Like an overly emotional kid, he, an old fool, considered suicide as the better alternative to living with his heart mercilessly broken.

What saved him was coming home after all. Sleepless hours spent crying in his lonely giant bed, pathetically clinging to his brother who patiently and silently held him through the night. Watching the sun rise and set above the skyline of Eldamar from his window, the capital so far below that it looked as though he could fit it in his hands. Building two metre high snow dicks with Eönwë by the front gate of the Taniquetil Estate. Learning to laugh and to appreciate everything that life still had in store for him. To believe that it's worth it. He's still learning that lesson; but never before this moment has he been this close to finally accepting it as he is now when he watches his younger twin hide a gleeful grin behind a failing mask of sternness.

It's worth it. Even if he has to pretend happiness in an intricate spectacle of deception, it's worth it for the people who care about him.

Mairon touches his hand. 'You're not listening,' he chides in a soft murmur close to his ear. Melkor's eyes are momentarily drawn to the younger man's lips, full and sensual, and he already knows how soft those lips are to the touch, but it doesn't stop him from wanting to make sure that he remembers correctly.

He gives Mairon a peck on the cheek instead. 'I'm sorry,' he says, addressing everyone at the table. 'It seems I'm more tired than I thought.'

'You're always like that after flights,' Manwë replies, 'so it's no big deal. Just don't fall asleep on us.'

'I'd never!' Melkor exclaims dramatically. Both Manwë and Eönwë snicker at that. Varda and Mairon look at them quizzically. Melkor pouts.

'Yeah, right,' says Eönwë. 'You know that both me and dad remember how you started to snore during my graduation ceremony.'

'I don't snore,' Melkor protests weakly.

'You do, sometimes,' Mairon supplies playfully and lifts a hand to the nape of his neck. He strokes there gently. 'Don't worry, I don't mind.'

Eönwë rolls his eyes. 'Gross,' he mutters under his breath. Then, 'Where's that dessert anyway?' He asks loudly.

Exactly after he finishes saying it, three servants arrive in the dining hall with different types of cakes arranged artfully on round silver platters. They set the selection of desserts at the central spot of the table, bow deeply and leave in silence. Still Melkor catches the curious looks all three cast at Mairon. He groans inwardly at the thought of all the wild rumours about him and his _lover_ that are probably circulating between the staff. Hopefully, they won't get the outrageous idea to try eavesdropping by their door at night.

Who is he kidding? Of course they will.

  


After the dessert, Manwë shows them around the gardens which are undergoing major renovations before the wedding. The first to have been overhauled was the rose garden which Melkor remembers as an intimidating dark jungle full of tall grass, tangled vines and hidden hornet nests; he is quite amazed at the transformation as he follows everyone down the narrow cobbled alleys flanked at both sides by rose bushes. He's not fond of the strong sweet smell of the flowers, to be honest he doesn't really care much about gardens in general, but nevertheless he finds the place impressive.

He watches as Mairon delicately picks a red rose in full bloom. The younger man grins and stops Melkor by standing in front of him. He lifts the flower and weaves the short thorn-less stem into Melkor's hair. Melkor rolls his eyes and grumbles something non-committal.

'I'd make you a crown, but you're so sour I fear it'd wither immediately upon being placed on your head,' Mairon tells him gleefully. He takes Melkor's hand and squeezes his fingers. 'Come, love; I'm sure your brother won't mind if we retire to our room for now.'

'It'd be rude,' Melkor protests.

'No, your nephew's comments about me when he thinks I'm not close enough to hear him are rude,' Mairon replies. 'You need rest. You hardly slept at night. I heard you playing.'

With a sigh, Melkor relents. It's true that he couldn't sleep the night before; he was restless and frustrated because he was unable to recall anything but a faint echo of a tune that kept playing at the back of his mind. Fruitlessly, he tried to recreate it on the piano, but with every note he played, the music retreated further and further, only to come back and dance at the edge of his consciousness, constantly just out of his reach. He didn't manage to capture it that night. Sleep, unfortunately, eluded him as well.

With his head on Mairon's chest and with Mairon's fingers massaging his scalp in a familiar gentle caress, on the giant bed in his old room, Melkor sleeps like a baby. The music which fills his dreams feels like a vibrant fire burning in the dark.

*

Melkor feels a bit guilty when he lets Eönwë drag him off to the garages, leaving Mairon in Varda and Manwë's talkative company. He forgets all about it, however, when he sees Eönwë's new motorbike. It's a mint condition matte black Warhammer Grond I, the first edition, one of the original sixteen which made it into the general market. Soon after the Grond's initial release, Warhammer went bankrupt and Grond was never mass-produced. A few years ago, Mordor Motors bought the rights to the name, but their Wolfhead Grond II has been declared an unworthy heir of its predecessor's legacy. Melkor owns a Wolfhead Grond II, of course, even though the engine in this model is weaker than in older Mordor machines and the small-ish frame feels rather awkward for his tall physique. It's a poor substitute, but the thing is, due to its extremely limited amount, the first edition Grond is practically impossible to find.

Yet, there it is in all of its deadly glory.

'How,' Melkor asks, amazed, as he circles the machine to take in its every detail. He touches the smooth black leather of the seat, brushes his fingers along the matte surface of the dashboard.

'How did you get it? Where did you find it?' He all but whispers.

Eönwë laughs. 'Charity auction. Can you believe it? Turns out, one of the Dwarven Kings purchased a Grond for his son at the original release, but the son wasn't into motorbikes after all. The poor thing was stored in the garage for over fifty years before the Dwarves discovered it, gave it a polish and put it up for adoption.' He looks incredibly proud of his new baby. Melkor wonders if his jealousy is just as visible. He loves his nephew, he really does, but right at this moment, he's considering breaking his neck and making off with the motorbike.

'You were very, very lucky,' he says instead, trying very hard not to sound bitter.

Eönwë throws something at him and Melkor catches it at the last moment. With a start, he looks at the key on a feather-shaped key-chain. The upper part of the key is engraved with an elegant inscription of the model name and series.

'Happy birthday, big bad wolf,' says Eönwë with a very wide grin.

Melkor stares at him, struck speechless. Then, finally regaining his wits, 'You're not serious!' He exclaims in disbelief. The whole situation, this must be a joke, a cruel trick of some kind; there's no way his nephew really means it. Such things don't happen in real life. Nephews don't just casually buy their uncles motorbikes worth small fortunes.

'I'm completely serious,' Eönwë says solemnly. 'I know how much you wanted this bike. I remember how you almost had it, but that fucking bastard made you pass it up. He broke up with you not a month later and left you a right mess. I decided that I would do whatever it takes to make you happy again. Then I saw this auction. Listen, I know what you think. It's expensive, it's extravagant, it's very fucking grand for a birthday gift. Just, take it, okay? I promise I won't buy you presents for Yuletide or your birthday for the next twenty years.'

'I- I don't know what to say,' mutters Melkor, looking helplessly from his nephew to the motorbike and back to Eönwë. Finally, he gathers Eönwë into a very tight hug.

'Thank you,' he whispers into Eönwë's hair. He's not crying. Definitely not. 'Thank you, so, so much,' he repeats. Eönwë pats him awkwardly on the back.

'There, there. You're welcome, dark one. Don't start leaking on me or I'll join you,' he threatens half-heartedly.

Melkor nods as he lets go. He wipes his face with his sleeve, breathes in and out. His left hand is clutching the bike's ignition key so tight that it's getting painful. Eönwë looks up at him. There's a certain kind of resolve in his sky blue eyes. The atmosphere feels charged with something unrecognisable. Eönwë stands on his tip-toes and leans in-

'Here you two are,' says Manwë, entering the garage. 'I was wondering where you've disappeared to. Come one, get ready. We're taking the chair lift down to Eldamar, Mairon's never seen the view.'

Eönwë rolls his eyes. 'As if I care,' he mutters darkly. 'Dad, I'm not going,' he announces, 'I'll just be in my room. Migraine, you know,' he adds and walks away without another word.

Melkor smiles a bit nervously to his brother. 'Uh, yeah, okay. I'll. Just grab a jacket,' he says and flees from the garage as if he were leaving the scene of a crime. In a way, he is.

  


The chair lift is world-famous as the longest of its kind that has ever been built. It's also one of the oldest conveyances of this type, originally dating back to the industrial boom of the Fifth Age. Preceding the access road by nearly four centuries, the chair lift and the ski trail were initially used by traders to deliver weekly shipments to the Taniquetil Estate. In the Sixth Age, they were reduced to a tourist attraction thanks to the breathtaking view of the whole massif of the Pelori mountains it offers. Of course, the entire machinery has been replaced since then and the only thing remaining from the original lift line is the peak station which belongs to the Taniquetil Estate. It's built entirely out of wood and carved stone and consists of the roofed lift platform, the operator's post and the lift mechanism shed. The line has survived a massive avalanche and three major fires and despite the complete overhaul funded entirely by Manwë ten years ago, it still retains its original hand-crafted appearance complete with wood pillars carved with scenes from the Pelori region folklore tales.

Each chair fits two people, so of course Melkor ends up coupled with Mairon who holds his hand throughout the entire ride. It's hard to tell if he's really impressed with the views or simply very good at acting, but he beholds the beautiful scenery with wide eyes. At one point, he asks about the ruins visible in the high mountains thanks to the good weather conditions. Melkor is the one who tells him the story.

'In late Fourth Age, this region of Valinor wasn't nearly as influential as it is now. The people who lived here were mostly Dwarven gold miners. This part of Aman was still covered in ice until late summer, so not many would decide to dwell here. Which is probably why in the eighteenth century Lady Artanis Fireheart chose the Pelori mountains for her hideout after the Ocean War. At the beginning she lived with just a handful of close friends and relatives in the Dwarven village that is now the Khazad District in Eldamar. Sometime between 1719 and 1721, they moved to the newly built fortress in the eastern massif. Before its fall in the early Fifth Age, the fortress served as temporary home for the Noldor refugees. Historical records indicate that at least fifteen hundred people found a safe haven in Lady Artanis' fortress before moving east. Many, of course, stayed on the continent, founding the cities of Eldamar, Tirion and Formenos. A good portion colonized the off-coast island of Almaren – you probably know that part, you're from Almaren – and the rest sailed to Middle-earth where they mostly mingled with the Sindar, Silvan and Edain tribes.

'In the second year of the Fifth Age, the fortress fell. It's unclear what caused the sudden collapse of the massive stone foundations. Some historians suggest terraforming, others – some distant echoes of the Grand Earthquake of year 1812 Fourth Age, you know, the one that caused the resurfacing of the legendary island of Numenor. What makes the ruins of the fortress a popular tourist attraction is that Lady Artanis was not among the dead caught up in the collapse. Whatever happened to her, her body has not been found to this day. A legend says that the Bright Lady still wanders the Pelori mountains, offering refuge to lost travellers.'

'I think I've seen a programme about this on TV,' Mairon says, nodding. 'There's a Dwarven tunnel running from Eldamar up to the fortress?'

'Not exactly,' Melkor corrects. 'The tunnel ends approximately there,' he points with his hand. 'There's a natural cave which is connected with the old gold mine. From the cave, it's another two-three hours of climbing to reach the fortress. Less if you know the shortcuts,' he grins.

Mairon chuckles. 'And of course you know them,' he guesses fondly.

'Yeah, well. You would too if you were a kid around these parts,' Melkor explains. 'We hardly had anything else to do but explore, me and Manwë. Anyway, if you know the story, why didn't you interrupt me? I probably sounded like a wise-ass dick.'

'No, you didn't,' Mairon protests. 'I just really like your voice,' he adds sheepishly. Melkor looks at him, surprised – and suddenly, the world stops moving.

Or, to be more precise, the chair lift comes to a very unplanned halt. Immediately, Melkor's phone rings with Manwë's ringtone, and when he picks up, his brother calmly informs him – almost cheerfully, in fact! - that there was a power shortage and they're stuck for a bit.

'An hour at least,' he says and Melkor can almost _hear_ the wicked smile in his twin's voice. 'Don't be too naughty though. It would be awkward if you fell off and killed yourselves while caught up in the act-'

'I'm never talking to you again,' Melkor cuts him off and hangs up.

At Mairon's questioning look, he quickly explains about the power breakdown. He's pretty sure he's blushing, which – he hates. He's too old to act like a kid with a crush. A compliment on his voice shouldn't be such a big deal. But he still thinks about that kiss before Eönwë came bursting in...

The thought of his nephew makes him feel uneasy.

He clears his throat. 'So, any other historical tidbits you would like to hear?' He asks conversationally.

'No,' replies Mairon with a smile. It looks... predatory. His face is too close, so close Melkor can feel his warm breath on his jaw. A hand finds its way to the nape of his neck, rests there.

'Alright. Anything else, then?' Melkor inquires, attempting to remain calm.

Mairon nods. 'Yes. Something else,' he agrees and warns, 'I'm going to kiss you.'

Melkor gasps and lets him, consequences be damned.

  


The city of Eldamar is the capital of Valinor, located in the valley below the Pelori mountains on the river Hrivesire. Its inhabitants present a diverse spectrum of nigh all races of Arda thanks to the immigration-friendly settlement policy. One of the biggest cities in the world, Eldamar offers the visiting tourists a unique opportunity to see Dwarven, Eldarin and even Shirean landmarks side by side on the way to the Museum of Human History. The remarkable Hobbit district at the southern banks of the Winter-river is built after Hobbiton, the smaller capital of the Shire in Middle-earth; with family diners and traditionally kept restaurants on almost every corner, it's the best place to visit for dinner.

Melkor loves the food, but he claims to the others that it pales in comparison with what Mairon cooks for him at home. He's only partially exaggerating; he still remembers the paprika pockets from that first day. Rosie Gamgee's excellent baked salmon with cheese and spinach is a close second to Mairon's cooking in his opinion.

'You're serious about him, aren't you?' Asks Manwë with a small smile when Varda steals Mairon away to show him the rabbits dwelling in the garden at the back of the diner.

Melkor falters. He doesn't exactly enjoy lying to his twin brother, although he has done it before in more and less severe matters. But since he's already gone to the trouble of creating this whole show, he decides it's not the time to back down.

'I love him,' he says firmly and hopes that the warmth spreading throughout his face at the confession does not mean he's blushing.

Briefly he wonders if he hasn't gone too far. Even at the peak of their relationship, he never once told anyone that he _loved_ Fëanáro. He only told Fëanáro, once, shortly before it all went to hell. The confession back then was either unheard or ignored and Melkor didn't try again.

Manwë, however, looks incredibly happy with the revelation. His bright eyes twinkle and he has dimples when he grins. He looks so young in his joy, Melkor finds it difficult to believe that they are twins. In comparison, he feels like he never was young at all.

He's nothing like his brother. Since their earliest childhood they were opposites in everything but the piercing blue of their eyes. From their looks: where Melkor is deathly pale and black-haired, Manwë has a mane of nigh-white locks and his skin is dark as if he sported a perpetual tan. Their personalities, too, follow this rule. While Melkor is ill-tempered and easy to anger, Manwë is timid and rather keeps his ire to himself; Melkor's darkness is matched by Manwë's light. In the past, their differences used to divide them, to the point of honest hatred between the brothers.

If one good thing came out of Melkor's nasty break-up with Fëanáro, it's his improved relationship with Manwë. They're... really close now. Closer than ever before.

'He's about Eönwë's age, isn't he?' Asks Manwë all of a sudden, effectively derailing Melkor's train of thought.

'Uh, yes. Older. Twenty-five,' Melkor replies.

Manwë nods in acknowledgement. 'Speaking of Eönwë,' he begins with a look of uncertain worry on his face, but doesn't continue because that's when Varda and Mairon return. 'Later,' he promises.

  


The ride back to Taniquetil is uneventful. Mairon talks a lot, but it's easy to tell he only does it in an attempt to fill the silence between them. Eventually, he gives up and busies himself with admiring the view from the chair lift. The dark shapes of the Pelori mountains look as though ablaze in the red glow of the setting sun. Melkor thinks this kind of fiery lighting suits Mairon. It makes his skin glimmer and his hair takes on an intense radiance, and his eyes... gold and amber, and that reddish shine as though the irises themselves are filled with liquid fire-

Mairon notices him staring. He doesn't say anything, just smiles, and Melkor's gaze is drawn to his lips. What he does next is foolish: he leans in and steals a kiss, a gentle touch of lips, nothing more. It terrifies him, this attraction he feels towards the dark-skinned escort; it's as if he's so starved for affection, he latches onto its smallest displays even when they're faked. He can't force himself to be professional about this, however; his heart pounds too fast in his chest, his breathing comes almost ragged, all because Mairon looks at him with a slightly crooked smile and something predatory in his fire-filled eyes.

 _Desire_ , Melkor thinks, then: _By the Void, he wants me too._

It happens immediately when the door to their room closes behind them. Melkor doesn't even have a chance to say anything: already Mairon is on him, pushes him against the wall and silences any attempt to form words with a deep, demanding kiss which has Melkor's head spinning. Mairon unabashedly licks at the seam of Melkor's lips, pushes his tongue past them to take, take, take; he has a piercing in his tongue, Melkor belatedly notes, and how hasn't he noticed it before, he doesn't know. His imagination is instantly flooded with fantasies of that clever pierced tongue doing _things_ to him and he moans into the kiss. Mairon presses into him impossibly closer in reply, grinds his hips against Melkor's; he's hard, both of them are, hard and past the point of reason with desire.

Mairon breaks the kiss to trail hot little licks and nips down Melkor's jaw and neck; with quick nimble fingers he undoes the buttons of Melkor's shirt and continues to assault his pale skin with caresses. He is not careful, he is not gentle, he doesn't care not to leave marks. His hands travel ruthlessly down Melkor's body, fumble with his belt; Melkor groans and is immediately silenced by Mairon's lips on his. He is not allowed his own exploration of Mairon's body; when he attempts to touch him, Mairon grasps his hands and pins them to the wall on either side of Melkor's head.

'Don't move them,' he commands in a hot whisper against Melkor's ear. 'Later I will let you,' he promises and licks the lobe, catches the small mithril hoop of Melkor's earring between his teeth and tugs gently. There is no pain, only a brief sensation of discomfort which somehow feels erotic and makes Melkor's heart race. Mairon's body pressed flush against his emanates a nigh-feverish heat not unlike the fire inside Melkor's mind which consumes all of his misplaced inhibitions. He moans, a ragged, throaty sound of pleasure; Mairon responds to it by once more claiming his lips with an almost bruising intensity. Finally the younger man succeeds in opening Melkor's jeans and he immediately pushes them down along with the underwear. He wraps warm calloused fingers around Melkor's length, he swallows the groan the sensation wrings out of Melkor; but he doesn't do more, he simply holds Melkor's cock in a firm grip, occasionally he brushes his thumb along the vein on the underside. When Melkor tries to move his hips, Mairon bites down a bit too hard on his lower lip as though in punishment.

He steps back from Melkor not a moment later. 'On the bed,' he orders curtly and Melkor cannot but obey the command. Walking through the room feels somewhat awkward, especially with Mairon's heated gaze following him hungrily; he sits down on the bed and then lies down on his back, certain that his cheeks are flushed under that watchful gaze.

Mairon all but pounces on him, pressing him into the mattress with his body weight. Melkor spreads his legs to accommodate him and gasps at the sensation of his cock sliding against Mairon's clothed groin, then gasps again when Mairon deliberately grinds against him. Mairon pushes his tongue inside Melkor's mouth, tasting him; with one hand, he pins Melkor's arms on the pillow above his head. His right hand boldly explores the pale plains of Melkor's body. Clever fingers stop to tease his nipple, then the other, to pinch and twist it none-too-gently before they resume their journey down over Melkor's abdomen to finally wrap around his throbbing length.

He's so easily overpowered, so easily overwhelmed by the pleasure; he groans and thrusts his hips up, into the touch of Mairon's warm hand. He feels Mairon smile against his lips before the steady grip on his cock turns into a firm caress. He can't help but moan breathlessly when Mairon strokes him in a slow and sensual rhythm; hot lips plant kisses and tiny nips down his jaw and neck and collarbone, and he bites down on his lower lip to keep down the wanton noises which threaten to spill.

Mairon whispers, 'You respond so prettily to my touch; I will make you feel so good,' and his voice is hoarse with intense _want_. Melkor doesn't reply, doesn't know how to reply. He briefly struggles against the hold Mairon has on his wrists but gives up when as a result, the younger man loosens the grip on his cock.

'Please,' Melkor mumbles, then attempts to hide his face in the crook of his shoulder for the embarrassment he feels from begging to be touched. Mairon doesn't allow him to; the younger man kisses him forcefully with a bruising passion that kindles a kind of fire inside of Melkor he didn't know existed. But the kiss doesn't last long enough before Mairon moves lower down Melkor's body, peppering his chest and abdomen and hips with kisses. He leaves a trail of bite marks as he descends, a map of small bruises where he suckled too harshly on the fragile flesh; and when he finally settles between Melkor's spread legs and glances up at him, there is a look of admiration on his flushed face.

'So beautiful,' he says in a low, deep voice and licks his lips.

Before Melkor can protest to being called so, Mairon dips his head and wraps his pretty lips around the tip of his length. He pulls away when Melkor attempts to buck up into the caress, pushes Melkor's hips down, pins them to the mattress, licks his lips again; and with a soft moan, he takes all of Melkor's cock at once, then begins to bob his head up and down, and he has no gag reflex whatsoever and his tongue piercing feels strange and amazing when it slides against Melkor's length, and it's so good, so, he's, he's going to, he _can't_ -

Mairon swallows his release and laps eagerly at his softening cock as though chasing the remnants of the taste; he then licks his lips again as if satisfied and doesn't protest when Melkor pulls him up for a long kiss.

'I like your taste,' Mairon informs him in a lazy drawl. He sounds hoarse. Melkor flushes when it dawns on him just where the hoarseness came from. He opens his mouth as if to reply, but he doesn't know what to say. He's kind of torn between wanting to apologize for coming so soon and begging Mairon to do it again. He is saved from the indecisiveness when Mairon kisses him again.

It's been too long since he last got laid, he thinks. The heat and weight of Mairon's body on his feels fulfilling, somehow, and he doesn't remember ever coming this hard from a simple if rather skilfully performed blowjob. Usually, he prefers to perform the act, not have it done to him, and his previous partners – Fëanáro included – didn't seem particularly inclined to reverse the roles. Mairon, though, Mairon is different. He didn't ask; he took what he wanted and how he wanted it, and Melkor was unable to deny him. Unable or unwilling.

He's distracted from the thoughts coursing through his mind when all of a sudden someone begins banging on the door. Mairon rolls his eyes and gets up to answer. His hair is tousled and his overall appearance leave little to imagination about what or _who_ he has been doing; as if hypnotized, Melkor watches the sway of the younger man's hips, wondering briefly how his life has come to this point.

When Mairon opens the door, a worried, almost wild-looking Manwë storms in, ignoring the escort completely. He doesn't seem to notice the state of Melkor's undress, or maybe he doesn't care. Still, Melkor fumbles to cover himself with the blanket because talking to his brother with his dick hanging out in the open would be awkward as fuck.

'Eönwë's gone,' Manwë announces in a strangely high-pitched voice. His hands are clenched into fists and his entire body is trembling. It's the first time in forever that he's so out of control.

Immediately Melkor's attention is fully on him. 'What do you mean he's gone?' He asks, straightening.

'Last time anyone's seen him was us, before we went to the city,' says Manwë and bites his lip. 'He's not in his room, he's not in the garage. He hasn't taken any of the cars or bikes, everything is where it's supposed to be. Just not him. I've searched everywhere.'

Melkor nods. 'I'll help look for him. I know all of his hiding spots, even those from back when he was a kid. Just let me get dressed,' he mutters and is rewarded with a small grateful smile from his brother.

But Manwë's relief is short-lived, because despite Melkor's efforts, Eönwë is still missing six hours later. There is no trace of him in the old tree house, it doesn't seem like he's wandered the abandoned orchard in months, the run-down forester's hut hasn't seen visitors for even longer. The obvious places like the attic of the garage and the wine cellar which is empty at this time of the year also show no sign of Eönwë's presence. The kid's gone.

Of course, when Manwë nigh loses his mind with worry, Varda, ever-practical, organizes two search parties. The first is made out of volunteers from the staff, men and women who know the grounds like their own pockets. Armed with headlights and radios, they enter the woods in groups of three.

The second unit arrives a bit after the first is deployed. Three large utility cars park right outside the gates of the estate, easily distinguishable in the dark due to their flashing red and blue lights. Almost simultaneously, to the accompaniment of ear-splitting noise, a police chopper lands at the heliport.

'Tulkas,' Melkor greets the bulky man from the chopper who seems to be the leader of the entire operation.

'Melkor! Didn't expect to see you here,' admits Tulkas with a grin. Immediately, however, he grows serious. 'So the kid really is missing, huh?'

'He's not anywhere I would know,' says Melkor. 'Manwë's in the mansion if you need him, Varda's keeping him inside because he's panicking. Wouldn't want him out in the woods in such a state.'

'Clever woman,' mutters Tulkas. 'Listen, this operation is only semi-legal because the kid's disappearance hasn't been long enough ago. I couldn't push for more men and we can't cover the entire perimeter with so few-'

'We've already got a group in the woods,' Mairon supplies. His hand is warm and steady in Melkor's grasp, his grip strong and calming.

'Good,' Tulkas says. If he's curious about Mairon's identity, he doesn't show it. 'I called Oromë, by the way, he'll search the swamps with the dogs. But I don't think he'll find anything, I mean, Eönwë's not stupid to get lost in the swamps at night,' he adds, frowning. 'You know what, I don't like it one bit. First the threats, now this, no wonder Manwë's losing it.'

Unfortunately, time doesn't allow for any clarification on the subject of threats that Melkor hasn't heard about before; idle chatter won't help them find Eönwë. Two police officers are left at the mansion to man the radio station while the others operate in the field. Melkor and Mairon, too, are urged to stay inside both for safety and in case of Eönwë's possible return. Being stuck like this makes Melkor feel helpless. It's no wonder, he thinks, that Manwë won't calm down. He's close to losing his mind as well after but a few minutes of inaction.

'I should have gone too,' he says, absent-mindedly knocking on the tabletop in a fast rhythm with the gloved fingers of his left hand. His right hand is still in Mairon's warm grasp as the younger man crouches in front of him.

'It's not safe out there at night,' Mairon tells him softly.

Melkor growls. 'Exactly! It's not safe, but Eönwë is out there all alone and I can't do shit about it! I shouldn't be sitting on my ass. It's wrong.'

'For all we know, Eönwë might be in the city,' the escort reasons. He's still calm about it all. It must be so easy for him, Melkor thinks irritably. He's an outsider, after all.

'What are you talking about?' Melkor asks, narrowing his eyes.

The younger man bites his lower lip. 'Listen, I know you're worried. It's understandable. But what if, well. What if the kid decided to go to Eldamar without telling anyone? He might be in a club or a hotel, or somewhere else, sulking about life being unfair.'

'Why would he do that?' Melkor questions incredulously.

'Because he's in love with you, idiot,' Mairon replies. When Melkor stares at him blankly, the younger man blinks as if in disbelief. 'Oh, don't tell me you haven't noticed? It was the first thing I observed about him. Come on. He'd cling to you, he's jealous of the time you don't spend with him, he hates me... He probably buys you gifts all the time, and I saw him steal one of your shirts from the laundry pile. So either he's in love with you, or he's a really disturbed kid. Probably both.'

All of a sudden, Melkor realizes that this is likely true. Just this morning, Eönwë was going to kiss him in the garage, he would have kissed him had Manwë not interrupted- and it's not like it was the first time something like this happened. Many situations from the past few years begin to make a disturbing kind of sense, now that the final piece of the puzzle is uncovered: the fleeting touches, the strangely often-occurring incidents of Eönwë walking into the room when Melkor was in varying stages of undress, that time when the kid was sixteen and had nightmares that could only be combated by talking to Melkor on the phone for hours before falling asleep, even that bizarre birthday two years prior when Eönwë sent him a high quality, custom-made dildo, allegedly by accident. He had kept that gift, he remembers in embarrassment. It was supposed to be for laughs. Well. He didn't laugh on any of the occasions when Fëanáro used it on him.

Great. Now he won't be able to face Eönwë ever again.

'He's my nephew,' he says weakly.

Mairon nods. 'You'll think about the disturbing aspect of it later. Now think: is there anywhere in Eldamar he could go to hide?'

'Probably,' Melkor replies uncertainly. 'I wouldn't know. He never tried to hide from me. From Manwë, yeah, but for that he only needed to go to the attic or down to the old hut near the clearing. He'd always let me find him, and we used to hang out in the hiding spots for hours. I taught him to play the guitar once when he was angry with his dad. He taught me to play chess. To be honest, I had more fun with Eönwë than I ever had with Fëanáro,' he finishes with a sigh.

Mairon chuckles softly. 'Well that doesn't make it sound weird at all,' he jokes. He is still holding Melkor's hand and with the fingers of his free hand he is gently stroking Melkor's wrist. It feels good to be able to concentrate on the caress instead of on the unfolding events. For a moment, Melkor can almost believe that everything is under control: that maybe Eönwë is really just being a little shit and the entire deal is largely blown out of proportion-

Until Manwë's strangled cry of anguish breaks the silence.

After that, everything is a blur as though fragments of delirious dreams glued together into something out of a most dreadful nightmare. There is no body to be identified, which is the one blessing in between all the horror. The jacket leaves no doubts: it's soaked and dirty, but still recognizable. Eönwë's ID is still in the breast pocket, the piece of plastic the only thing that survived the humidity untouched. Old ticket stubs, paper money bills and the dead smartphone all lost the battle against the swamps.

'They're sending an entire squadron to the swamps,' Tulkas says grimly. 'Of course, it's probably useless. That's too big a terrain to cover and even if it were smaller, how the fuck are we supposed to search a shit-ton of mud and stinking water?'

'Drain it,' replies Melkor hoarsely. 'Get the equipment and fucking drain it all if that's what it takes to find him.'

He's... numb. He knows that he should be sad, he knows that maybe he should be angry, but he doesn't feel anything at all. As though he's still not convinced that it's true. As though he expects Eönwë to come home any moment now.

'I don't think it's going to be necessary,' Mairon says. He's frowning; he's been frowning the entire time since Eönwë's jacket was brought in from the woods for examination. Tulkas looks at him inquiringly if doubtfully. There's a kind of distaste on his face that's completely understandable: Mairon is, after all, an outsider. An outsider who doesn't seem affected at all.

'I've seen Eönwë wear that jacket,' Mairon announces, 'as have we all. The thing is, it doesn't add up. Everything that was in the pockets, it doesn't make sense.'

'How so?' Asks Tulkas, confused, but Melkor thinks he knows the answer.

'His phone,' he says, 'Eönwë always carries it in the pocket of his jeans. The jacket... The pockets were sewn shut,' he remembers. 'They were like this since he bought it and he never bothered to cut the thread. I think I even laughed at him about it yesterday when he almost lost his phone in the garden.'

'Also the money, I saw him put it in the back pocket. Remember? He asked Manwë for some money because he needed a new, uh, grammar book? He grumbled about his wallet being too big and put the bills into the pocket. I think Manwë said something about him always losing change because of such behaviour,' Mairon adds.

'What are you trying to say? That it's not his jacket?' Tulkas asks. Then, 'Or that somebody removed the jacket from him, put some of his personal belongings inside and left the jacket somewhere we were sure to find it sooner or later,' he says. It's no longer a question.

'My guess is, it had to be the swamps,' Mairon says thoughtfully. 'Not only does it limit the area, but also numerous resources will have to be engaged in the search. Plus, if we think we're looking for a corpse, we're less likely to pay much attention to suspicious activity elsewhere...'

He trails off under Melkor's stare. It's difficult to be sure, but he might be blushing. For the first time since meeting him, Melkor thinks he is seeing a genuine side of the younger man: the quick deduction is not part of a role played to perfection, but rather a slip-up, a peek into the workings of a brilliant mind. From the sound of it, Mairon must be used to drawing conclusions from hints and partial clues. It's... not something an escort needs. Melkor isn't sure he completely buys the psychiatry student bit either. He isn't sure about anything anymore.

'Who the fuck are you really,' he asks when Tulkas is finally out of earshot.

'Who do you think I am?' Asks Mairon in return. Then, 'Who would you rather I be?'

'Be serious!' Melkor demands.

Mairon kisses him.

It's – slow and maddening, sensual and Melkor thinks he is addicted already to the rich taste of Mairon's tongue when it caresses his own; a soft groan escapes his lips and he almost forgets entirely where he is and what has just been going through his mind. It matters little if anyone is looking at them, judging them, nothing seems of import but the closeness; and with a feeling of dread spreading from where the pleasure of the kiss ends with a tingling sensation, Melkor realizes:

He's falling in love.

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot has thickened, tables have tabled... Who knows what happens next?
> 
> (Feanor. Feanor happens next. Whether that's a good or a bad thing, well. Only time will tell.)


	3. The rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melkor and Mairon take matters into their own hands and come face to face with the darkest of Melkor's demons.

The search for Eönwë proves fruitless in the following days. It casts a rather gloomy shadow on the wedding preparations and it's easy to tell Manwë's completely lost his interest in getting married any time soon. More often than not, he sits on the garden swing, staring off into the distance, lost in thought. He ignores anyone who tries to talk him into resting or eating. There's no trace of that friendly, talkative man who greeted guests into his house and told them the entire story of the region in one evening.

Melkor is more worried for his brother than he is for Eönwë right now. Whoever's kidnapped his nephew will likely want to ransom him, so there's a high chance of him returning unharmed. Manwë, however, may not survive this unscathed. For someone so influential, his psyche is fragile. Especially when it comes to his son.

'I don't know how to help him,' Melkor mutters to Mairon in the evening. The younger man is too calm about all this, something that gets on Melkor's nerves; as though careless of the fact that Melkor's beloved nephew is missing, Mairon spent this entire time with his books, focused deeply on the text instead of the goings-on around him.

It's unfair to blame him for being diligent in his studies, but Melkor hardly thinks anything about the world at the moment is fair.

They are both in the gardens at the back of the mansion right now, and Mairon is looking thoughtfully off into the distance, nose scrunched and eyes narrowed. He does that every night for some reason; stares off into the mountains, as if deep in some musings he doesn't share. He seems the picture of concentration, as if even now he were lost in the world of psychiatric theory. But no; he bites his lips, breathes out and finally turns to Melkor with triumph bright in his golden eyes.

'I know where Eönwë is,' he says boldly.

As if electrified by the words, Melkor opens then closes his mouth, unable to utter a word in reply. Incredulity at the claim mixes with tentative hope within him, and he thinks of how it was Mairon who first knew Eönwë wasn't dead, how it was Mairon who came to that conclusion and made them all realize it, how once more it is Mairon who offers a solution. He may be wrong. By all accounts, he is most likely wrong. But Melkor looks at him and waits, and he knows Mairon can see the desperate need on his face.

'Look there,' Mairon commands and points in the direction of the mountains. Far above the city of Eldamar, far away from any settlements and roads, that is where Mairon's finger is pointing, and suddenly among the endless plains of darkness underneath the strangely starless sky, Melkor notices a speckle of light, a little flicker of something glowing, as though fire, as though-

'It's in the ruins,' Melkor realizes in wonderment, 'it's the old fortress. They are keeping him there?... Nobody would go looking there, not with the paths being closed off due to avalanche risk.'

'You told me yourself there are other ways in,' Mairon supplies. His hand finds Melkor's and squeezes it in reassurance. His fingers are warm against the rapidly cooling air of the evening.

'We should tell Tulkas. Every hour with the kidnappers is another hour Eönwë is in danger,' Melkor says. He turns to go to the mansion, but Mairon doesn't move or let go of his hand. 'Mairon?'

'I don't think he was kidnapped,' says the younger man. He's not looking at Melkor as he speaks. 'It's too perfect a timing. Too perfect a plan. Even if there was a third party involved, I think Eönwë went willingly.'

'What? Why?' Asks Melkor, frowning. 'Mairon, this is bullshit-'

'Your photo,' the escort replies. Then, 'You know he carried your photo in his wallet, right? Everybody seems to know that, I asked Varda and she confirmed it like it was obvious. Weird they never found that suspicious...' He shakes his head. 'The thing is, we know for sure it's his wallet Oromë brought from the swamps, but the photo, well, it's not there.'

'It might have gotten lost in the woods,' Melkor says carefully.

Mairon shakes his head. 'No, no. Nothing else is missing. All his documents are in there, the ID, the driving license, even some ticket stubs from the cineplex. A picture of Manwë, an old school photo of Eönwë, a small family photo taken somewhere around this garden.'

'Maybe he never had my photo to begin with,' Melkor supposes, 'or he removed it when he got angry at me some time or another. You can't accuse him of – what exactly? - on the basis that there wasn't a photo of his uncle in his wallet.'

'No, but I can be suspicious if it's the photo of the person he is in love with,' Mairon states flatly.

For a moment, they stand in silence, Melkor facing away from his younger companion, Mairon's hand still holding his in an unrelenting grip. Melkor cannot, will not wrap his head around what Mairon is trying to convince him of: that Eönwë would willingly cause this much pain and fear to his family, that he would disappear like this, that he would take measures to ensure his own father thought him dead.

That he would do all this – that he would have any reason to do this.

Finally, Melkor shakes his head and looks at Mairon. 'Even if you are right,' he mutters, 'even if Eönwë simply ran away from home, we can't leave him out there. We need to talk to Tulkas.'

'Tulkas is a cop, he'll do it the cop way,' Mairon protests. 'If you were a kid running away from home, how would you react to a fucking police siege? You know you would do something stupid, don't try to lie. You don't need to be a psychiatrist to know the shitstorm that would be the result.' He sighs. 'No, Tulkas may be a good guy, I get it, you trust him, but I don't think you should tell him. I think... damn, I hate that nephew of yours. He's more trouble than he's worth, for Void's sake – I think we should go fetch Eönwë. You especially.'

It sounds outrageous, it sounds crazy – if Mairon's wrong and Eönwë's been kidnapped, it's downright dangerous – but Melkor finds himself agreeing with the younger man nonetheless. He doesn't want to, but there are dark notes in Mairon's voice and an unholy glow in his eyes, and Melkor is drawn to him as though to a flame. It's familiar. It's terrifying. He knows the helplessness of following someone's lead, of giving into somebody's will, because he has done it before. No matter how in control of his life he desires to be, no matter how hard he tries to sever himself from it, his nature beckons for him to give in.

He doesn't want to submit, but that's how his love works: selfless and self-destructive, poisonous to all around him in the end.

'We should depart immediately,' he hears himself say. He attempts to concentrate on Mairon's fingers twined with his, calloused and warm, grounding him. Fëanáro held his hand only once, soon before the world went up in flames: before the first presenting of their masterpiece to the audience with the Eldamar National Orchestra. Fingers squeezing his own, briefly, lips pressed against his knuckles, a secret between them, smiles only they understood exchanged before the music rose around them in a maddening crescendo of chaos tamed to create perfection.

Mairon lets go of his hand. 'We won't be any good in the dark,' he reasons.

Melkor shakes his head. 'I could find my way in these woods blindfolded. If we take a torchlight, we're good.'

'Wild animals?' Asks Mairon dubiously.

'None that would attack us, I don't think,' says Melkor a bit hesitantly. He's not sure, actually. He doesn't remember much about the creatures living in the reserve. Deer, lots of rodents, wolves – but those aren't really dangerous save for Winter, he supposes – birds, including birds of prey. Snakes maybe. Spiders – oh, he hates spiders; and boars? Likely.

'Do you think Oromë would go with us?' Mairon inquires softly.

Melkor isn't sure. Oromë never liked him much, despite Melkor's attempts at friendship in their youth. That's not necessarily a failing on his part, however: it's a well-known fact that Oromë doesn't like anybody much, save for his ex-wife he's still friendly with and the kids he teaches. He's a loner, possibly only happy when in the seclusion of the deep forest. There's little reason for him to help in an endeavour he wouldn't much approve of.

'I think we'd be better off without him,' Melkor concludes. When he sees Mairon frown, he adds, 'We may however try to borrow one of his dogs. You saw those beasts. They've hunted enough game in these woods with him to defend us if something happens.'

Mairon looks at him dubiously. 'How do you suppose we steal a dog? They don't know us. They won't go with us.'

'It's worth a try. Come on. He keeps them in our kennels while he's stationed here, we might as well go now,' says Melkor and leads the way.

They smell the dogs before they even catch a glimpse of the kennels. Melkor hates the stench of fur and piss and he immediately regrets his idea, but it doesn't seem to affect Mairon at all. The younger man, once set on his path, walks confidently up to the wire fence to look at Oromë's beasts. Melkor stands a distance away, so he barely hears Mairon's soft murmuring as he allows the dogs to sniff him through the fence. It's amazing: the beasts would normally be going crazy by now, barking like mad at anyone who as much as looked their way, but with Mairon, they are silent. Watchful. Two great beasts watch him especially intently from what Melkor can see, both dark and tall, with massive jaws made for killing.

Mairon opens the kennel and walks inside.

Immediately the dogs become nervous, begin to circle him as though preparing for an attack; Melkor watches, frozen in place, as the younger man calmly stands among them, as he gets them used to his presence and then as he finally grabs the collars of the two dark beasts. One of them, the larger one, growls and shows off its deadly teeth. Mairon puts his arms up and with his entire body he towers over the dog, enters its space fearlessly: cows it into submission through a display of power. His eyes glow golden in the dim light coming from the mansion, and he firmly leads his two chosen beasts out of the kennel.

Throughout it, no sound, no word ever left his mouth.

'How the fuck,' Melkor whispers when Mairon returns to his side. The younger man smirks as he leashes the two dogs.

'I watched a lot of Dog Whisperer as a kid,' he replies casually. It's impossible to say how serious he is. He's never seemed more attractive than right at this moment.

Melkor licks his lips. Mairon looks at him as though he knows what he's thinking; with a smirk, he leans up and plants a little kiss on Melkor's cheek. A subtle mockery, a taunt: as if daring Melkor to do something about this, as if teasing him into reacting.

'We should go,' Melkor mutters, turning away.

If he expected a protest, a new attempt at flirting, anything really, he's been mistaken. Mairon simply tugs on the leashes and follows after Melkor down the slope to the darker part of the garden exactly on the opposite side from the gate. If they want to be secretive about their excursion, it's obvious they cannot leave through the main entrance. The side entrances are also likely manned by Tulkas' people in case Eönwë comes back, so they need another exit. Thankfully, Melkor knows Taniquetil all too well – and he knows some things never get fixed around here.

He finds the spot immediately. From anyone else's point of view, the hole in the fence is likely invisible. Back in the day, he made sure to make it so. He meticulously placed the metal rods and secured them with black isolation tape to create an illusion of the fence being whole. He used the concealed exit for years, every time when the pressure from Father was too much and he needed an escape. In time, when the entire length of the fence was backed up with a thick hedge, the exit became truly invisible. He's pretty sure nobody knows about it but him.

Hoping against all hope to avoid spiders, Melkor dives into the hedge in order to open the exit. Mairon follows when the hole is revealed. It's smaller than Melkor remembers, with more sharp edges. He curses softly when his jacket catches on a broken piece of metal and rips.

It's all such a bad idea.

He finds Mairon's hand and grasps it, refuses to let go – and Mairon doesn't protest. In his free hand, Melkor carries the torchlight, but he doesn't dare turn it on yet. Where they are, they would be perfectly visible to anyone looking out the windows. It would put the secrecy of their mission in jeopardy and – Melkor doesn't want that. He doesn't want to be found out. He doesn't want anyone to stop them. They're going to get Eönwë back: Mairon and him, by themselves. They're bringing Eönwë home.

The night is strangely dark, veiled in a cowl of rain clouds which strangle the starlight. Such clouds can't mean anything good in the mountains; stories of sudden storms and avalanches caused by torrential rains resurface in Melkor's mind as he walks in silence down the overgrown pathway. It leads to the Eaglenest Vale, where Melkor used to hang out with strangers and smoke weed as a kid; a few years back, on a lazy late summer day, a giant avalanche went down from the Eaglenest Mountain and the Vale is now nothing but a tomb. Out of the seventy-three victims, the majority have never been recovered from the masses of snow, ice and rock. Six members of the rescue party were killed when the effort set off a second, smaller landslide. It remains the deadliest tragedy in the Pelori mountains; the Vale is off-limits now, completely abandoned: a scar left over the careless youth of the people of Valinor. Melkor read about it in the papers. Before Lammoth, he used to have nightmares of waking up from a nap to the roar of a wall made up of snow and stone, of trying to escape – of suffocating as the semi-sentient masses of raging avalanche tear him apart and drown him in pain. After Lammoth... memories have become much more terrifying than nightmares.

'You're scared,' Mairon observes softly.

'Not quite,' Melkor replies in a whisper. He sighs. 'No; just... it's dangerous in these mountains. I lived here for long enough to feel confident, but I was a stupid kid back then. I ignored all warnings, I went wherever I pleased, looking for something I never found... somehow, I survived. But I'm old now, and I don't know if the mountains can forgive that. We're being stupid, Mairon, we should go back. We shouldn't go out there alone.'

Mairon shakes his head. 'We shouldn't,' he agrees, 'but Eönwë did.'

Melkor nods. It's not like he wants to turn back now. They don't need to go all the way down to the Vale, there's another way through Thorondor's Pass, slightly longer but safer. There hasn't been an avalanche risk in the Pass for centuries. They can take that route. They don't need to go all the way down. They don't. But they can't take dogs through the Pass. The creek is deep in that part and there are no bridges since the flood, the only way across the creek is skipping from rock to rock. Maybe there is a fallen tree up there, but it's just a guess. Might as well be nothing. Going through the Pass with no knowledge of what awaits them might be a waste of time.

There's no choice, Melkor knows it. They will go through the Eaglenest Vale.

'Talk to me,' Mairon urges. The dogs are calm as they walk in front of them on the long leashes. The larger one – Carcharoth, Mairon said he was called – looks back at them every now and again, as if making sure they are still there, following. The other, more muscular dog – Draugluin - never strays too far ahead.

Melkor sighs. 'I was in an accident,' he says softly. He shakes his head. It sounds so stupid: an accident. It was more than that. He starts again: 'You have heard of Lammoth, yes?'

Mairon nods. His hand in Melkor's right is warm. He wonders if he would feel that warmth with his left. He doesn't think so.

'What did you hear?' He asks.

The younger man hesitates. 'Almost two hundred people died,' he says. He frowns. 'When it happened, every TV station, every paper talked about it for weeks. The first plane crash in fifty years. The first crash involving Valamar Airlines. I remember staring numbly at the screen, because I couldn't understand how two hundred people could be killed in an instant, just like that.'

'It wasn't an instant,' Melkor says and bites his lip. Suddenly, he feels so cold. He's trembling. 'The altitude was too low. Didn't you wonder why they were able to recover almost the entire machine? It wasn't the fall that killed them, it was the explosions, the fire and the fucking avalanche.'

Mairon stops walking. 'You were there,' he whispers.

Melkor looks at him and nods. 'I was there,' he confirms. 'I'm the only survivor. Ironic, since...' he pauses. To the Void with it! He swallows the bile in his throat and continues, 'It's ironic since the crash was supposed to kill me.'

'What do you mean?' Asks Mairon, frowning.

'It was, I was... After the verdict in Eldamar, after I won the Silmarils, I flew back with my lawyer. Ungoliant Darkweaver. Everyone told me it was a bad idea to hire her, you know, but she, well. She was the only one who actually thought I had a chance. I thought she was weird, but a weird ally is better than no ally. I was so stupid!

'We had an argument over money, she suddenly demanded a salary increase, she wanted five times as much as we agreed on. I told her she was crazy. We yelled at each other in the airport, then she said something like, she'd have her way no matter what. I told her to stuff it or something similar,' Melkor says and sighs. 'We had seats next to each other but I didn't want to spend another minute in her company so I swapped places with another passenger. He was excited to be going business class while I took his economy seat in the back.

'The flight was normal, you know? But there was some kind of a thunderstorm at higher altitudes, the pilots explained it over the speakers. We went lower, so low that we could see the mountains of the Helcaraxe. I was actually excited, I was giddy, but she suddenly came over and told me to enjoy the view. I didn't realize how she meant it. I should have. I should have warned them,' Melkor's voice falters.

'She went to the cabin and shot them. She shot the pilots. I think we all heard it, but we thought – I don't know what we thought. Gunshots sound completely different in real life than in films. Then suddenly, her voice was in the speakers and she said,' he pauses once more. Takes a deep breath. Continues, 'She said I was a liar and I deserved to die. She said everyone should look at me and hate me, and blame me, because I was the reason they were all going to die. Because she needed to kill me. Because I deserved to die. And then the engines went silent.'

Mairon is looking at him in horror. There's pity in his golden eyes, and understanding, and worry, but nothing of it is as visible as the pure fear which shows on his entire face as he realizes how the story ends. Melkor shakes his head and begins to walk. He shouldn't have said anything. He shouldn't have talked.

He never told anyone before.

'Melkor, please wait,' Mairon whispers, tugging on his hand.

'What? You want to hear the rest? How the plane plummeted to the ground, how people started screaming, how the cacophony of sobs and prayers and terror seemed almost unreal, how the crash didn't kill everyone, how the engines and the petrol tanks started exploding one after another, how-how she crawled to me, still alive, somehow, with her skull cracked open and her entire body on fire and how she grabbed my hand-'

Mairon pulls him into an embrace and Melkor allows himself to be hugged, but he cannot stop talking, he cannot:

'I was fine, somehow, Mairon, nothing happened to me, I had bruises but when we hit the ground I fell on others and nothing happened to me, nothing broken, nothing, I was fine, but then she grabbed my hand and wouldn't let go, and she screamed, and she burned, and I couldn't free myself, my sleeve caught on fire, and then I think... I think I passed out,' he says feverishly, licks his lips and hides his face in the crook of Mairon's neck. His next words come out muffled.

'I woke up to a wall of smoke. Everything was black, I couldn't see ahead, my entire arm hurt. People were crying, moaning. I was numb. There was an explosion close to me and all of a sudden the ground began to shake. Then, that sound... I never heard it before, but I recognized it all the same. It was something like... a scream, a rage-filled cry of insanity, so loud and hateful, like a thousand thunderstorms at once. There was no escape, nothing I could do. When the avalanche hit the plane and devoured it, I fell under the seats. I'm... not sure, I don't know how I survived. I don't even know how long I was there. After the world stopped moving, there was silence and I think I thought I died. I wanted to be dead. I didn't want to be the only one still alive in that... mass-grave.'

He shakes his head. He feels one of the dogs nudge his leg with its snout. He lets it sniff his left hand and then gently strokes its head, amazed when it doesn't bite his entire arm off.

'They only found me because I had this stupid melody in my head and I hummed it,' he says and chuckles in a fit of self-deprecating amusement. 'It felt so lonely and when I hummed, I could pretend I wasn't alone. And they found me. I was alive. Out of the one hundred and ninety three people on board, I was the one who was supposed to die – and I was the only one who survived.'

Mairon's embrace tightens. It feels safe. It shouldn't. Mairon is an escort, somebody he pays to keep him company. A stranger who hides so much about himself. Someone he isn't sure he can trust. But this stranger now knows more about Melkor than anybody else, than even Eönwë. He told nobody else the truth about Lammoth. He told nobody else he was there: not even his psychiatrist. He let them think – he lied so well – he made them believe he had a car accident. That he didn't wake up every night for the next six months screaming in fear, fighting off a phantom grip on his left hand. He almost told Fëanáro – he almost begged Fëanáro to listen, to be there for him just one more time; but the sneer on his ex-lover's face spoke volumes. Fëanáro didn't care. Fëanáro never really cared about him anyway.

Mairon is different.

'We should return,' the younger man whispers into his hair, holding him close.

But Melkor shakes his head. 'No, no. I'm fine. I'm better,' he lies. 'Thank you,' he whispers.

Mairon kisses him on the forehead. 'No, thank you. For telling me,' he says softly. 'Are you sure you can go on?'

'Yes. I'm not afraid anymore,' replies Melkor and draws back from the embrace. He doesn't let go of Mairon's hand, though. He won't risk losing him in the darkness.

The rest of the way down passes in companionable silence. The torchlight comes in handy once the gentle slope becomes sharper and rockier. The dogs begin to become nervous after approximately an hour and a half of the descent. Melkor knows why. The feeling of dread arises in him the closer they are to the Eaglenest Vale, but he will not back down now. Not when Mairon's hand in his is still warm and firm, not when Eönwë is out there all alone, stupid, rebellious and in need of their help. His nightmares can't touch him anymore. He won't let them.

'Look at the sky,' Mairon says in wonderment all of a sudden. Melkor looks up and sees the stars. It's a breathtaking sight: the star-lit sky over the Pelori mountains is limitless, the view unhindered by the city lights. He turns off the torchlight, much more confident in the soft light of the stars than he was with the artificial, blinding glare; he leads Mairon down the final high stone steps which he used to jump off of in his teen days, as if he were challenging the mountains themselves into a duel.

The Vale looks nothing like he remembers.

Back in the day, there used to be countless benches strewn around the bottom of the Vale; some had handmade roofs to shelter the kids from rain, some were accompanied by stone circles for bonfires. There was a big oven near the centre of the clearing where they could boil water or bake potatoes. Once upon a time, the Vale was used by shepherds, but a long time ago they moved to glades and meadows closer to the city, leaving their constructions to the kids. The two wooden huts and a privy are nowhere to be seen, however, just as the benches and the oven. There's only snow and rocks, and Melkor's wild imagination draws before him the shapes of corpses torn into pieces by a raging destructive force-

Mairon follows him without a word when Melkor's pace increases.

They cross the Vale as fast as Melkor risks it. He knows he's on the verge of a panic attack – he can hear a distant rumble as if a scream of rage, drawing nearer, he almost feels the ground shaking, and he is aware it's all a hallucination. Mairon's hand, warm still despite the cool air of a late summer night, anchors him to the reality. Without it, he's sure he'd go crazy.

When they reach the wood-enforced steps on the other side of the Vale, Melkor allows himself to relax. It's not safe, of course, not yet. But even the dogs seem calmer now, and he wonders if somehow they knew they had just walked over a mass-grave. There's no way he could do it again. They'll have to use the mainstream route to Eldamar on their return trip, and they'll just use the chair lift back to Taniquetil. He doesn't want to go through here ever again.

They climb the stairs in silence, only their breathing audible in the darkness illuminated by the stars. Talking would only tire them out and they're not even halfway there; although Melkor feels as if their greatest obstacle has been left behind. The Eaglenest Mountain before them is relatively non-threatening, once upon a time the perfect skiing spot for beginners; Melkor still remembers where exactly to turn left in order to leave the stairs behind and find the old smuggling trail leading up to the mines. He's not surprised that there's snow everywhere. At this altitude, it hardly ever melts at all and the summer has not been especially warm this year. After the harshest winter of the century, it's completely normal that there's layers upon layers of snow.

He doesn't want to think what would happen if these layers became too disturbed. He's done imagining the horrors of the avalanche.

All of a sudden, Mairon stands still. 'Look,' he says, pointing at something in the topmost layer of the snow. Foot prints. Two people, by the looks of it. It's impossible to tell how old the prints are, but Melkor is ready to bet they're no older than a few days.

'He was not alone,' Mairon notes, thoughtful. 'Do you think I was mistaken?'

'No,' Melkor replies. 'Look, these are smaller. A girl?'

'No fucking way. Don't tell me he eloped with some girl. That's fucking stupid,' Mairon says. His face is scrunched up in an expression of such contempt, Melkor can't help but laugh. It's too loud, it's kind of hysterical, he hates how it echoes off the silence, but he cannot make himself stop; but Mairon seems to know him so well, because he leans in and kisses him, muffles the laughter with his mouth, kisses Melkor into a state of peacefulness.

'You're okay,' he whispers when he pulls away.

Melkor nods and makes himself start walking again. He wonders what time it is. He's not especially tired. Not physically, anyway; mentally, he's exhausted, but he doesn't know what he could do to remedy that. Once this entire business is over, he'll probably return to therapy. Or not; but he'll have the doctor prescribe him something. Anything. Even if it hinders his creativity, he needs some fucking help. It's long overdue. Even as he walks through the snow, wondering why the fuck he hasn't thought to wear something warmer, Melkor purposefully tries to steer his mind clear of the melody which suddenly fills his subconscious. The introductory part of the Silmarils: Flame Imperishable.

He shouldn't have filed that lawsuit in the first place. He should have let it go, he should have let Fëanáro go.

One of the dogs – Draugluin, Melkor thinks – growls all of a sudden. Melkor hears the low sound just as he hears the familiar rumbling; not quite as loud as he remembers, but no less terrifying, no less filled with insane rage, the blood-curdling roar of masses upon masses of snow and stone and dirt and ice resounds in the air as if a warning of certain doom. But it's distant: and Melkor looks down, below them, at the Vale they left behind – and he sees it, the movement, the landslide which came down the slope of Telperion to devour the calmness of the grave site of Eaglenest Vale as though an ever-hungry creature of bloody myths.

Mairon's hand holds his in a vice-like tight grip and Melkor holds on to dear life as they stand there and watch what looks like the whole mountain coming down to the Vale in punishment for allowing trespassers to go through. They're safe where they are; less snow, no loose rocks, just solid ground reinforced with carving in centuries past when the pathway served as the only way to the mines. There's no danger of that kind of death reaching them here.

'We're lucky,' Mairon whispers, not once looking away from the avalanche far below them. His eyes hold in them a morbid fascination and Melkor can guess what he's thinking: had it come down two hours earlier, it would have swept them away just like that. A few hours earlier and they would be dead, or wishing they were dead.

'I love you,' Melkor says, because he can't stop himself from repeating his past mistakes, because it's there pounding in his head like a resounding echo of gunshots and the song of almost two hundred people screaming in panic and fear.

Mairon finally tears his eyes away from the landslide and looks up at him. 'You know nothing about me but what I told you, and it may all be a lie; yet you would fall in love with me? It's dangerous,' he says. There's something teasing about his words, or maybe Melkor thinks that because of the slow smile which lightens up the younger man's face.

It's different. It's not what Melkor expected. It's not a violent denial, it's not scorn or mockery; it's none of those things and Melkor isn't sure what it means. The melody transforms in his mind from the familiar structure of the Silmarils to something different, something – wild, something like surviving a plane crash and an avalanche, something like death and rebirth, monumental and glorious.

'Let's go,' he mutters, awaiting no answer from Mairon as he takes them towards the entrance to the old mines. The dogs seem distrustful of the old iron gate which opens with an unholy screech, right until Carcharoth marks it in his own canine way; Melkor laughs at that and goes inside, turning on the torchlight as he passes the gate. Nothing dramatic happens, nothing like in the films where a swarm of bats would all of a sudden flutter madly above their heads. It's just an abandoned mine, a remnant of the region's golden past, deserted after an explosion in the deep buried not only hundreds of miners but also the most promising veins they were greedily pursuing. In a way, it's a graveyard just like the Vale, but it's different.

Like in a museum or a church of a god of the old, the air is heavy, but not threatening. Breathing in is difficult because of the stifling stench of humidity, but the staleness doesn't overwhelm the senses like the silence before a landslide does. The old railway tracks are barely there anymore, only the rows carved into the stone floor left of them after centuries of plunder, but they're a better guide than a map would provide. Melkor leads from memory: straight ahead until the first crossroads, then left, down the stone steps to the second level, forward on the next three crossroads, down the steps to the bottom, then right and straight ahead. He remembers playing hide-and-seek with Manwë here, he remembers the skeleton in the well and the fun he had chasing his brother through the lower levels with a skull in his hands. Manwë had his revenge later, when he found the biggest and ugliest fucking spider ever seen in Valinor and casually put it on Melkor's pillow before waking him up. It wasn't even a real spider, just a moulting of one; he obtained it from a breeder in Eldamar especially to frighten his twin halfway to an early grave, and as Melkor thinks about it now, he's never really forgiven his brother for that transgression.

They pass the chapel dedicated to the old god Mahal and Melkor smiles when he sees there are still offerings at the small altar. He pulls Mairon there.

'As children, we always thought if we brought him sweets, he'd keep us safe in the mines,' he says, shaking his head at his childish naivety. 'I think that belief is still alive. Look, there's candy in that bowl,' he points out.

Mairon laughs. 'It's amazing how the kids in Valinor are still alive. It's an abandoned mine!'

'Oh, this part is more or less a tourist attraction. I think there's three or four groups a day coming here to see the stone craft of the ancient Dwarves. Here's where the way back to Eldamar starts,' Melkor explains, nodding to one of the corridors on the far right. 'Don't worry, though, where we're going is much less mainstream.'

'Yeah, that's what's really important,' mutters Mairon, rolling his eyes.

The dogs, to Melkor's surprise, are not especially nervous in the mines, as though they've been here before. It's possible. Oromë's wanderings take him to various locations. Maybe he decided to go sight-seeing around here with his beasts at one time. Maybe he was simply out hunting and found here a shelter from the rain. Either way, the fact that Carcharoth and Draugluin are not afraid of their surroundings makes everything that much easier.

Especially since they need to leave the dogs here.

'What do you mean, leave them,' Mairon protests incredulously.

'Unless you want to carry them up the ladders on your back,' Melkor replies. 'Listen, they're going to be fine. We'll be back soon enough. They're not yours anyway, what are you getting attached for?'

Mairon sighs. 'They're good dogs,' he says. He scratches first one, then the other beast behind the ears. 'Okay, you're right, we need to leave them. Carcharoth, Draugluin, _stay_.'

The dogs look up at him as if confused, but they're well-trained. They don't follow when Melkor leads Mairon to the corridor which ends abruptly with an abyss. Indeed, they both simply lay down to rest. Melkor envies them a little. He is starting to feel tired. It's been years since he last had such a long trek at night. He has to hit the gym one of these days.

'I'll go first,' he offers, puts the torchlight between his teeth and lowers himself down the ladder. Mairon seems justifiably hesitant, since he probably can't see the bottom from where he's standing, but he follows either way; Melkor refrains from informing him that he doesn't know if this hole in the world actually has a bottom. Really. Once, along with Manwë, they tried to check it. After dropping insane amounts of stones and coins from the cliff, they had the grand idea to measure the depth with a piece of string. They tied a rock to one end of the string and dropped it into the darkness, but even though they kept tying additional pieces of string to its original length, they never reached the ground.

Melkor tried, much later, to go down the ladder to the very bottom, but he was disappointed to find out the bottom was still not visible from where the ladder came to an end.

This time, they need not go that far down. Melkor counts the steps like he always did when descending to the secret passage, and at exactly one hundred he lurches to the left to the welcoming well-lit corridor. He pockets the torchlight, reaches out and helps Mairon do the same, and then laughs breathlessly when the younger man hits him repeatedly for being a bastard.

'I thought you were trying to kill me! Damn you and your passages,' Mairon hisses. His eyes are furiously golden and Melkor kisses him until Mairon calms down. A favour from earlier, returned.

'Now stop fussing,' he says, 'and look around you.'

Mairon does and from the sigh that falls from his lips, Melkor guesses the younger man is impressed. With good reason; after all, it cannot be every day he finds himself among the stars. Of course, it's not really stars; but the corridor looks as though star-spangled for the glowing crystals growing on the surface of the stone around, above and below them.

'What are they,' Mairon asks, reaching out to touch one of the crystals. It dims upon his touch and he frowns.

'I don't know,' Melkor replies truthfully. 'But they seem to be organic? I mean, if you pick one, it stops glowing within a few minutes. Fëanáro theorized they were...' he breaks off.

Mairon doesn't ask. His hand finds Melkor's again as he continues to look around in wonderment. They start walking again, the feeling of floating across the night sky striking Melkor as more surreal than it ever used to be when he took the path alone. This part of their journey, at least, is pleasant, completely devoid of the not-so-irrational fear that gripped him out in the Vale. There's nothing dangerous in here, where the foreign yet to Melkor incredibly familiar constellations of glowing stone light their way. He's almost disappointed when they reach the dead end with a ladder leading up.

'We're almost there,' he says, motioning towards the ladder. 'Now, this ladder isn't as old as it looks, so don't be scared. Manwë had it installed almost as soon as he inherited the title. It's because he knows it's a popular place for kids to wander,' he explains. 'It leads all the way to the surface.'

'Where on the surface?' Mairon asks, likely to estimate how far away from the ruins they will end up.

Melkor smirks. 'The well within the inner walls of the fortress,' he replies cheerfully.

They begin to climb.

It takes a long time before they even see the exit. Melkor only sees that there's a circle of the sky above him because it's already dawning. Their trek must have taken so much longer than it felt like; hours upon hours of walking, and then additional hours of going up this Void-accursed ladder. He didn't remember it being so tall. Or maybe as a child he was that much better at climbing. Damn, but his legs ache. Once this is all over, he's definitely going to laze around in bed all day without a fucking care in the world. Or write music before the insistent melody in his head drives him completely crazy.

He helps Mairon get out of the well and looks around. There's nobody in their nearest vicinity, but Melkor can hear two distinct voices coming from the direction of the outer yard. Then, laughter; he looks to Mairon and nods. It seems the younger man was right, since the conversation, judging from the tone, doesn't seem to have much to do with a kidnapping.

And so it isn't: Eönwë is sat upon a patch of hay, and opposite from him across the bonfire sits a girl who looks – who looks almost exactly like him. They're both wrapped in blankets and they seem to be roasting marshmallows in the fire.

The girl notices them first. Her eyes widen and she says something to Eönwë, who turns around and drops the stick with marshmallows in surprise. It's clear to Melkor his nephew didn't expect company – and definitely not this soon.

'You're having fun, I see,' he says. It's difficult to keep anger down, but he manages it. Mostly because he's too exhausted to explode.

'It's not what it looks like,' Eönwë tries to explain. His voice, his face, his entire posture – everything about him is a display of panic. A deer in the headlight.

'Really now. Because it looks like you're roasting marshmallows. Now, that can't be, because there's no way my nephew would carelessly roast marshmallows after making it seem to his whole family – to his worried father – that he's dead. Not my nephew,' Melkor announces conversationally and casually plops down on the ground next to the girl. He's sure he's never seen her before. Yet the resemblance to Eönwë's features is uncanny. She's not identical, but close enough.

'Well, what do you know,' Eönwë mutters.

'Was he ever worried about his daughter?' Asks the girl, giving Melkor a challenging glare.

'… His what?'

Now they're pulling his leg. It's the first Melkor's hearing of such a development, and he's pretty sure he would know it if his twin brother had a second kid out there somewhere. But Eönwë sighs and there's resolve in his voice when he introduces,

'This is Ilmarë,' and he nods to the girl. 'She's my twin sister.'

Mairon, who stands a distance away, looks as though it suddenly all made sense to him. It doesn't make a sliver of sense to Melkor, however, and he voices his doubts immediately:

'How the fuck?'

Eönwë is the one who answers. He's calmer now that his truth is out there. 'We learned about each other's existence by accident. Ilmarë grew up in an orphanage in Tirion. We met in a lecture, actually, she came to accompany her friend. At first both of us dismissed everyone who told us we looked alike, I mean, come on, I don't look like a girl-'

Mairon snorts inelegantly at that. Eönwë glares at him before he continues. 'But eventually I got curious. I thought, maybe she was my mother's. I do resemble mother more than I do father. So I started digging around. Found Ilmarë. Found our records at last, and alas! Twins.'

'The hospital records and my orphanage admittance papers both say that I was abandoned because the father only wanted one child,' Ilmarë continues from where Eönwë left off. 'We didn't find our mother, but apparently she wasn't interested in her children at all.'

'Listen, I remember when Manwë got you,' Melkor says to Eönwë. 'It's impossible that he would abandon one child and only take the other. He seemed fucking lost, but that? It would be heartless...' he trails off. Suddenly, he gasps and blurts out, 'Oh for the love of, it was our Father!'

When the twins – and Mairon as well – look at him questioningly, Melkor shakes his head. 'Of course,' he says, 'it makes sense. It explains why your mother fucked off without as much as a good-bye – the old bastard probably paid her off so that she wouldn't want to marry Manwë. It would have _ruined his future_ , after all. Damn...'

'So we've been blackmailing dad for nothing?' Eönwë asks, worried.

'You blackmailed him. Great going, kid, spill all of your secrets already so I can be done being disappointed in you,' Melkor says bitterly.

Eönwë has enough decency to blush and look away. Ilmarë sighs. 'We fucked up,' she admits.

'Yeah, big time,' Mairon agrees. He comes up to the bonfire and sits down next to Eönwë. 'How exactly did you blackmail Manwë?'

'We sent him threats that if he didn't own up to the child he abandoned, he would be left with no child at all,' Ilmarë confesses. She's honest just like Eönwë used to be. She's probably just as cunning, though. Melkor doesn't really want to trust her. Not after all he went through today.

'He didn't seem to do anything about it at all, so we decided it was time to act. How the fuck did you two find us, anyway?' Eönwë asks. There's irritation in his tone.

Melkor looks him down in blatant disapproval, but it's Mairon who answers, 'You were sloppy, that's how. If you really wanted us to think you were dead, you would have left Melkor's photo in that wallet. Or you wouldn't have bothered with the wallet at all.'

Eönwë's chances a glance to Melkor; he looks terrified. 'It's- I don't know what photo you're talking about,' he lies in a shaky voice.

'It's okay, Eönwë. We know,' Mairon says.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' Eönwë repeats darkly. But his hands are shaking and he doesn't dare look at Melkor again.

'Listen,' Ilmarë speaks up, 'I mean, it's very interesting how you came to your conclusions to find us and all that, but what now?'

This is a good question. Melkor hasn't really thought that far ahead. His mind was occupied with memories of his traumatic past and the hope that Eönwë was okay. That he would bring his idiotic nephew home. He didn't factor in things like fucking blackmail.

'You know, never mind,' Ilmarë says quickly. She stands up and stretches her limbs. 'Let's go. I'll take the blame. I mean, if anyone found out it was Eönwë's idea, his future would be ruined. I don't have a future anyway-'

'No, I won't let you do this,' Eönwë protests hotly. He stands up as well and grabs his sister's wrist. 'Ilmarë. You're not to blame here. I came up with this stupid ass plan. I pushed it on you. It's my fault. I won't let you pretend otherwise.'

'There's another option,' Mairon supplies calmly. Melkor and the twins all look at him expectantly. He shrugs. 'Well, we can make it seem you were both kidnapped after all. I mean we didn't exactly tell anyone that there was no kidnapping,' he says, nodding to Melkor. 'Let's say you were both kidnapped. By your mother, for example, or a woman who claimed to be her at least. You went with her willingly at first because there was no reason to not trust her, but then she had you two entrapped here. You couldn't do anything because she had a gun. We managed to find you and free you only because she went away to get supplies or to acquire a means of transportation or something to that effect.'

'… you're an outstanding liar,' Melkor says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He's so tired. Of everything: of scheming nephews and surprise nieces, of avalanches and nightmares and romantic feelings, and especially of not knowing what was going on around him.

'Thank you, love,' Mairon says, accepting his words as a compliment they were not meant as. But his idea is sound. It's not fair to deceive Manwë like this, it's also probably not fair to the woman who gave birth to these two little twin weasels, but it would be for the best. Melkor certainly doesn't want either of the kids to end up in too much trouble for being stupid; although he's certainly going to make their lives hell for as long as he's around.

He just hopes Manwë's happiness at reuniting with his new-found daughter will be enough to erase the trauma of having thought he lost his beloved son. It's enough that he's fucked up. He doesn't want his softy of a brother to have to go through any of that.

They don't dwell in the ruins for much longer; if they did, Melkor is sure he would have fallen asleep right then and there. Instead, they set off on the trip back. It's just as tedious climbing down the ladder as it was climbing up, but time seems to have picked up a faster pace. They make their way back to the chapel where they are joined by the dogs, who seem extremely excited to see Mairon again from the way they greet him as if he were their rightful owner. From there, it's not that far to the exit closest to the city, and they are able to return to Taniquetil with the first chair lift of the day even before the sun fully rises.

Melkor rides with the first lift with Eönwë, Mairon is with Ilmarë and the dogs are secured in a special chair for transporting animals which they accept calmly. They were probably trained for it, and it doesn't even matter, but his thoughts are wandering. He's so tired, it's ridiculous. His eyes are sliding closed against his will.

He awakens with a start when somebody shakes his arm. Eönwë holds out his hand to help him get down from the lift and Melkor accepts, slightly confused; has he really fallen asleep that easily? Shame. He wanted to use the ascension time to be very harsh and judgemental towards Eönwë; it's a lost opportunity, but he's going to have more chances to do that anyway. With a yawn he unsuccessfully attempts to stifle, Melkor follows his nephew to the platform where they wait for Mairon and Ilmarë with the dogs. The silence which stretches between the two of them is awkward – and Melkor realizes it's because Eönwë knows he knows.

'I'm not... I mean, I don't mind,' he says softly. When his nephew looks up at him in inquiry, Melkor sighs and clarifies feeling vaguely stupid: 'I don't mind that you feel that way about me.'

'Yeah, great,' Eönwë grumbles. 'Can we please not talk about that?'

Melkor protests, 'I think we should talk about that. I think-'

'Don't,' Eönwë pleads. 'Because I know you will never return my feelings. I know, okay? I'm used to it. Just don't make me talk about it and I'll be fine. Yes?'

There's not much he can do about it right now, so Melkor gives up. He nods his assent and all but slumps against Mairon when the younger man joins him. He's too sleepy to care that despite his assurances he's going be okay, Eönwë is glaring at them, at Mairon specifically; it matters little, really, because almost as soon as the dogs are securely on the ground, there's a commotion from the direction of the mansion: Manwë runs towards them, followed by a relieved-looking Varda and the rather unhappy duo of Tulkas and Oromë. The latter calms down when he sees the dogs, however.

Manwë grabs his son and hugs him tightly against his chest. Eönwë doesn't protest and allows himself to be manhandled for a moment before he whispers something to his father, who draws back and looks at him wide-eyed. Then, as if struck with an enchantment, he turns towards Ilmarë.

'My... daughter?' He asks, words filled with wondrous disbelief. When the girl nods shyly, none of her earlier confidence left now when she's facing Manwë's scrutiny, Manwë immediately draws her into a hug as well.

'I'm so sorry,' he says, repeated over and over, and it must be convincing enough because soon Ilmarë hugs him back like there had never existed a grudge against her father within her.

There's a lot of explaining to do, so many lies to spin, but Melkor doesn't care about that now. There's music under his eyelids and he needs to let it out. He excuses himself – cruelly leaving the talking to Mairon, but he's pretty sure the younger man will do much better than he could – and he spends the next few hours lost in the chaos of creation. He spills everything he went through over the night, he lets it go and transforms it into a maelstrom of musical notes climbing higher and higher in a staccato pulsing like the throes of an unknown calamity before the powerful climax takes the motif roaring down like a landslide that leaves nothing but destruction in its wake-

He sleeps for the remainder of the day, his dreams for once free of nightmares.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! It won't be as intense as this one, I think. And it will be fluffy and full of loving. Melkor deserves all the love he can get after what I put him through...


	4. The fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts and ideas crowd Melkor's mind, some less innocent than others.  
> Finding clarity amongst his doubts is harder than anything, especially when morality dictates he stray from the paths of his heart's desires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:  
> This chapter contains uncle/nephew incest. Eonwe sure doesn't give up easily. Just so you know, this entire story's endgame is Mairon/Melkor/Eonwe which has somehow become my OT3. You've been warned.
> 
> Also in: Melkor angsts a lot, Eonwe swears like a sailor and Mairon ships it.

Besides Varda whom she instantly adores and, obviously, Manwë who spoils her rotten to make up for the twenty-odd years he hadn't known about her existence, Ilmarë takes to Melkor just as much as Eönwë has always done, although thankfully without the romantic subtext. Unlike her brother, however, she actually really enjoys Mairon's company as well. It might be because she's into the same educational field as him or just due to the fact that Mairon is an interesting guy; either way, they are wont to spend hours discussing theses Melkor doesn't really understand if they're left together unsupervised. It's a good thing because it allows Melkor time to spend with his music without the guilt of leaving Mairon to his own devices for too long. Not that Mairon seemed to mind before, the diligent student that he is, but still it's nice to see him getting along with someone close to his age-

Great, now he sounds like a creep. The age gap may be considerable between them, he's aware, but certainly not enough so to be called scandalous. He shouldn't be feeling guilty about being older, for fuck's sake, it's not like he's the one doing unsavoury things to Mairon in bed anyway-

'You're thinking about him too much,' Eönwë complains, reaching from where he's sat and poking him in the ribs.

Melkor groans. 'I will think what I want, thanks very much, viper,' he mutters. The thing is, he's finding it difficult to concentrate today. His mind is filled with so many different melodies – some completely new and impossible to capture yet at this stage, others mere echoes of the Silmarils. The day is unusually warm, rather too hot for Melkor's tastes, even in the shade by the fountain in the older part of the garden where they're both reclining on an old picnic blanket; there's no movement of the air at all, not even the slightest breeze, and the lazy atmosphere lends itself to Melkor's inability to focus.

Eönwë rolls his eyes and returns to his scribbling. He's sketching something, slumped over his sketchbook to hide it from view. It's quite obvious why he has no desire to share his works with Melkor: he already confessed to his predilection to drawing Melkor, clothed or much less so, in different poses – some of which may or may not be judged rather indecent. Melkor doesn't even have enough energy to mind his nephew's imagination, although he is vaguely aware that the amount of time Eönwë spends fantasizing about getting him naked should bother him at least the tiniest bit.

He's... used to it. Somewhat. As much as he can get used to being wanted again. He finds that he's having the same problem with Mairon's affection: he gives into it so easily, but at the same time he dreads the moment when it all turns out to be but a rouse, a scheme designed to use him for one means or another. He doesn't really expect a confession from his younger lover (and by the gods of old, how inadequate the word sounds, and how inaccurate for two people who are, in reality, bound by naught but a working contract); but he would welcome at least an acknowledgement that Mairon remembers his own declaration of love up in the mountains. There are too many insecurities hidden in not knowing this simple thing, too much potential for being hurt – he doesn't want to get hurt. Not again – although it's already too late, since he went and fell in love with a hired escort.

His left hand pulses with a familiar dull reminder of pain which no longer has any right to affect it yet which never really goes away. Melkor pinches the inner side of the wrist through the glove and sighs when he feels nothing, not even the pressure of his fingers against the spot he is touching. No wonder; there is nothing but bone and synthetic replacement skin underneath the soft leather of the glove. No pain receptors, no flesh, just the charred bones and a coat of artificial skin to protect them from crumbling. It's a miracle of modern medicine that he is capable of using that hand at all, that he's more proficient at writing with it than he is with his unharmed right hand: the miracle of Irmo Lorien's robotics which replaced his burnt nervous system and muscle tissue. He's lucky, he's extremely lucky to have qualified for Irmo's experimental treatment; or else privileged, not lucky, because it was not random chance that decided his participation but rather Manwë's friendship with the good Doctor.

All in all, he should feel blessed, for his arm was saved against all odds. And in a way, he does. But still he hates how brittle the limb is, how an unfortunate impact may break the bone, destroy the fragile technology and possibly lead to the loss of the arm after all.

Because of one woman's insanity-driven greed, almost two hundred people died – and Melkor got away with his life at the price of his dominant arm.

He doesn't really spend much time pitying himself on this account. He doesn't even think of it as a disability unless he's in an especially bad mood, and to be honest, there are so many other areas he can indulge in for self-pity instead, including first and foremost the fiasco with Fëanáro which he will likely never get over. His left hand is not really a problem on most days. Sure, it hurts like a bitch inside the bone when it's cold outside and it has these weird moments of almost pulsating when it's hot, but that's nothing. It's easy to get used to. It's a phantom pain anyway.

Being afraid of sharing his music with anyone around him for fear of not being good enough anymore is so much worse.

'You never explained it to me,' Eönwë says, motioning to Melkor's arm with his head. 'You probably told dad, but you wouldn't talk to me.'

'It's nothing,' Melkor lies and throws a piece of coal at him. Eönwë catches it easily and smoothly chucks it back at Melkor, aiming for his head and missing by a good few inches.

'How do you mean? It's nothing, as in, you wear the single glove for aesthetic reasons, or it's nothing as in... well, there's nothing left there but a prosthetic?' Asks Eönwë, unrelenting.

Melkor sighs. 'Neither. Give it a rest.'

'Kiss me and I'll stop asking,' Eönwë demands, a cocky grin adorning his face.

Melkor rolls his eyes. 'Yeah, no. Why the fuck am I even talking to you? By all accounts, I should still be mad at you for that stunt you pulled with your sister.'

'You're physically incapable of staying mad at me,' Eönwë informs him semi-seriously. 'It's a scientifically proven fact.'

'Weren't you supposed to be silent and not bother me? I know it doesn't seem much like it, but I'm trying to do some work here,' says Melkor impatiently, pointing at his notebook.

Eönwë laughs. 'Yeah, yeah. You're scribbling bubbles around the notes. Why the fuck aren't you using proper music sheets anyway?'

The question reminds Melkor of a similarly worded inquiry from what seems like a lifetime ago; words spoken in a drunken drawl, a teasing tone, an offer of a napkin or a sketchbook for future music writing instead of a maths notebook already partially filled with algebraic equations. Laughter, carefree and happy and so inebriated. A kiss which tasted of root beer and cheap apple cider; the first of many others to follow. Nothing in that first kiss could have warned Melkor of what was to come. Back then, drunk on Fëanáro's presence and the fire of creativity that burned inside the both of them, Melkor thought the entire world belonged to him. To them. Together.

'I hate music sheets,' he says curtly.

'You're so weird,' Eönwë replies. Then, 'I think I want to dye my hair.'

'Don't you dare,' snaps Melkor immediately.

'Why not? Do you like my hair as it is?' Eönwë asks, flirtatious all of a sudden as he smiles at Melkor in what is definitely a very skilled seductive look.

'Yes,' Melkor says honestly. 'Also, you'd look stupid with any other colour.'

Eönwë laughs. 'How do you know? I might just look perfect in black. Or ginger, would you like me better if-'

'You've got to stop this,' Melkor cuts him off. 'Eönwë, you're an amazing guy and all, and I really love you, but you're my nephew. That's the only thing you'll ever be. That's the only way I will ever love you. So please stop trying. It's not going to work.'

Eönwë's happiness falls in an instant, transforms into such a heart-broken expression Melkor actually regrets his words. They were true; of course they were true, he's not a creep, he's known Eönwë since the kid was born and such a relationship, for him, could never turn romantic even if he wanted it to, but this. This sadness really bothers him. He hates to see Eönwë like this.

'Listen,' he attempts, but Eönwë shakes his head.

'No, I get it,' he mutters. 'It's impossible not to see how in love you are with _him._ He's going to hurt you. You can't trust him. He's a liar. You know how good of a liar he is. But you're always like this, aren't you. You let Fëanáro destroy you-'

'You understand nothing,' Melkor hisses, but Eönwë chuckles bitterly and looks straight at him with eyes the colour of the summer sky.

'Oh, really? You knew he was married, you _knew_ he had kids, damn it, you were there when half of his brats were born, you knew when his wife got pregnant with twins, you knew and you _told me_ all about it, but still you allowed him to wrap you around his fucking finger. This is the same, isn't it, but worse, because when you're hurt this time, when you crash and burn, there's no safety net, there's nothing. You'll let it kill you.'

'Shut up,' Melkor demands. He attempts to stand up, but Eönwë pulls him back down on the blanket by the wrist of his left hand.

'I'm not shutting up,' the younger man says, 'and you're not running away. You want to because you know it's true, you know he's going to destroy you-'

'So you propose I indulge in an incestuous affair with you because that's not fucking destructive at all?' Melkor demands, mocking and cruel, a defensive reaction which falls on deaf ears because his nephew is too stubborn, too convinced he's in the right.

'I propose you look at your fucking life and stop self-destructing!' Eönwë all but yells. His grip on Melkor's wrist is relentless, too harsh not to cause pain, yet Melkor doesn't feel a thing.

'It's my life. You don't get to tell me what to do, kid,' he mutters and then falls silent with the resolve to say nothing more. He's not going to argue about this any more than he already has. It's a lost cause, Eönwë has his own opinions on things he cannot possibly comprehend and Melkor is so done with this conversation.

A pair of lips pressed against his own causes him to react violently; he pushes Eönwë away as if burned by his touch, and this time his nephew doesn't stop him when he gets up. The stolen kiss was brief, barely even there, but the impression of the feather-light caress is like a punch to the gut or the first wave of a storm; and Melkor can't breathe, he needs to get away. He can't look at Eönwë, he can't stay here, he has to go, anywhere, anywhere but here; so he walks away, or runs away, and he lets his legs lead him while his head is unable yet to follow, the further away from all this the better-

Strong arms intercept him, a man with dark skin and constellations of freckles all over, _Mairon_ , his mind supplies, and Melkor forces himself to relax where his first instinct was attempting to flee.

'I got you,' Mairon whispers into his neck, but Melkor wonders, incredulous and disbelieving,

_Who are you? How do I know I can trust you? How do I stop falling in love with you?_

But the unvoiced questions have no answers and Melkor fights the impulse to ask them out loud. He sighs and says instead,

'Let's fuck,' and Mairon's embrace tightens.

If nothing else, if he doesn't much care about Melkor save for the money he earns from spending time in his presence, at least this one thing cannot be faked between them: the younger man finds him attractive, wants him, desires him physically. He's not just indulging Melkor in this; acting wouldn't explain the way his pupils dilate, darkening his eyes until but a thin ring of gold iris is visible, or the way his breathing quickens when he looks at Melkor. How did this happen? How did the elegant, indifferent escort from a few weeks ago turn into this man who becomes visibly affected by Melkor's offer? The _no-sex policy_ seems so funny now, like something from a lifetime ago. Since the night when Melkor told him all about his biggest fears, sex is basically all they do.

'I'm supposed to help Oromë walk the dogs,' Mairon mutters, a tone of disdain in his voice. 'It would be rude if I didn't show up, since I pestered him for a good few hours before he agreed to let me tag along.'

'I see,' Melkor replies. He extricates himself from Mairon's arms with a soft sigh. 'I think I'll just, I don't know. Write some music. That's been going great. Yeah.'

He doesn't wait for an answer, he just heads to the mansion and smiles a fake smile to Manwë whom he meets on the way. Once he's in his room, he lies down on the bed, smothering his face against the pillow for a moment until it becomes difficult to breathe; at least the urge to scream passes. He then rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, at the boot print directly in his line of sight, and he frowns because he doesn't even remember how that got there – just that it wasn't there when he and Mairon first arrived.

His bed smells of Mairon, a fact which doesn't really help matters. The scent makes Melkor horny and miserable at the same time, and he thinks as he unzips his jeans and slips his hand past the waistband that he must be the most wretched fuck ever. But his cock hardens when he strokes it and Melkor licks his lips as he imagines Mairon's warm calloused hand in place of his own. It is easy to draw from memory the exact timbre of Mairon's voice as he murmured sweet nothings – words of praise, _you're so good for me, you moan so pretty, I want to tie you up and never let go_ , and Melkor pretends that the memory is enough; he presses his face into the pillows on Mairon's side of the bed and pushes his jeans and boxers down for better access. He strokes faster, too rough, he hisses and lifts his right hand to his face, spits into the palm, grabs his cock once more; smoother now, the caress makes his hips buck up into the touch and Melkor groans. He wants – everything, anything; he wants Mairon's mouth pleasuring him and Mairon's hands restraining him, he wants Mairon to fuck him like he never did before, he wants Mairon inside him, and his own hand is a poor substitute for what he wants. But for now, for now it's enough, just so, and his eyes slide closed to slip easier into the fantasy which spurs him on-

The mattress dips and Melkor's eyes open wide in alert, shock rendering him nigh immobile when he sees his nephew's shirtless form too close to be proper; Eönwë looks desperate, there is a terrible hunger in his gaze as he regards Melkor's nudity and,

'Please, please let me,' he begs, swatting Melkor's hands away; he lowers his head between Melkor's thighs and takes him into his mouth, and Melkor wants to push him away, wants to stop this madness, but by the Void, Eönwë knows what he is doing and it feels exquisite, and Melkor moans helplessly as his fingers get tangled in Eönwë's hair to pull him back or to push him down, and he's lost, he's so close, he's going to, he can't, it's wrong, _it's wrong_ -

A warm blunt fingertip massages the brim of his entrance and Melkor's mind goes completely blank for a sweet moment of bliss when it's too much and the entirety of his body is so overcome by pleasure that the immorality of the situation doesn't matter; he writhes and his back arches as he comes, loud and unbidden in his release. Yet the post-orgasmic high never settles and too soon, the horror of what happened catches up with him.

'Eönwë,' he says and trails off. What can be said? So in silence he covers himself, unable to look at his nephew, feeling both like he'd been used and like he'd done the using. What happened can't be justified, can't be forgiven. Melkor wants to scream, to blame everyone else for yet another fuck-up in his life. Instead, he stares at the boot print on the ceiling.

'You called _his_ name,' says Eönwë casually, leaning against the headboard. 'All this talk about how you're in love with Mairon, all the puppy eyes you make at the kid, but still you're not over _him_.'

'I didn't,' Melkor protests. He can't remember what name he called, if he even called a name, he can't really recall anything but the incoherent pleasure.

'You did,' Eönwë assures him. For all that he's done, he is incredibly careful now not to touch Melkor, possibly aware how triggering any form of physical contact could be. He's smart and he knows Melkor too well. 'I think we both know by now that if Fëanáro appeared here out of nowhere and smiled your way, you'd go running back to him without ever looking back.'

'You don't know what he did to me,' says Melkor softly. He closes his eyes. 'I don't want to talk about it and definitely not to you. I feel sick just being in your presence right now.'

'No, you don't,' Eönwë says cheekily.

Melkor sighs. 'No, I don't,' he agrees unhappily. He thinks he should be disgusted, he should be angry or terrified. He's just... numb, and possibly sluggish after the intense orgasm. He may be angry, but he's not sure. Recently, all that's been happening is simply too much at once. He's not quite sure how he is supposed to deal with all the events surrounding him. This was supposed to be simple. 'I don't know which one of us is more fucked up,' he mutters, shakes his head and sits up.

'Oh, I'm sure it's always going to be you,' Eönwë scoffs. 'I mean, okay, I gave you a blowjob and I loved it, but let's be real, you're the dick wallowing so deep in self-pity you don't notice that people care about you. Dad's been really worried, you haven't been yourself since I came back with Ilmare.'

'Will you _stop_ talking about my brother when you're in my bed? It makes me feel like a fucking creep,' says Melkor with a wince.

'Between the two of us, I'm the creep,' Eönwë admits easily. 'Am I as good at it as your Mairon?'

Melkor lets out an exasperated noise halfway between a snort and a sigh. 'We're not talking about that,' he warns, 'and I'm definitely not going to be giving you comparison pointers. I can't believe I still haven't told you to get out. What you've done, what we've done, Eönwë, it's sick-'

'Spare me your speeches,' says Eönwë, rolling his eyes. 'I know you think it's sick. I can't help loving you though. Wanting you. I told you already. It feels natural to me.'

He chuckles and gets up. Melkor looks up at him and Eönwë smiles. He looks happier after what he did. His ashen hair is messy and what he is wearing of his clothes is crinkled, and it's so easy to tell that he just got what he wanted; if Mairon saw him now-

_He probably wouldn't care_ , Melkor thinks darkly, mood soured.

He hates that he has such mood swings. He's supposed to be okay now. Fëanáro doesn't matter anymore, the music inside him is back even if it's on fire and therefore not so easy to harness as it used to be, his brother is getting married and found himself a father to twins instead of just a son; things are heading in the right direction. But the experiences in the mountains reawakened the fear from after the plane crash and Melkor knows this is why he's so badly affected. He probably should have attended those therapy sessions at least semi-regularly. He probably should have trusted the professionals he paid to help him.

'This won't happen again,' he says sternly, gesticulating to indicate between himself and Eönwë who just laughs. He wishes he could laugh as well. He misses his old self. He would have found the whole thing so fucking funny before Fëanáro.

He wonders how his life would be if he'd never met Curufinwë Fëanáro and cringes. He was at his best with Fëanáro; to be able to match Fëanáro's perfection, he became better than he thought he could be. Together, they created something close to ideal. Their music was otherworldly, sacrilegious in its majesty, larger than life itself. So was their relationship. Eternal, it was not. It changed Melkor, transformed him in more ways than the following plane crash accomplished; he is a different person from who he was before meeting Fëanáro. He's a decent fucking guy, for starters, excluding this whole weird shit with Eönwë.

He gets up from the bed. 'I need something to write,' he announces and goes in search of his notebooks. He finds one and grabs a pencil, then sits by the piano and begins to write. Not words, but notes come to being on the paper, scrawled in inelegant and messy handwriting of Melkor's right hand; he uses the left hand to hit the keys on the piano in what must seem to Eönwë a random combination. But melodies form in his mind, unbidden, so different to the greedy and self-feeding infernal fire of the music he's written up until now; shy at first, the notes climb higher and gain: momentum like a gust of the first cold wind in late Autumn and in their current, a new, bolder melody rises in power: proud and mighty against the oncoming storm, the bird of prey soars in the night sky. Powerful wings steadily drive the gusts of wind while the predator seeks its prey in the darkness below: and when he finds it, the bird dives in a magnificent swoop, his claws extended to maim; and the blaze below rises to meet the challenge in a gleeful and deadly dance-

Melkor doesn't notice when Eönwë leaves the room. Once he's finished with his writing, it's already dark out and Eönwë is nowhere to be found. That's for the best, since Mairon has returned at some point of the day. He's sitting in the armchair by the window, dressed in an oversized sweater and snug jeans. His hair is messier than normal and there's a leaf stuck in it. He's reading and doesn't notice Melkor's approach at first.

'Oh, hi,' he says, refusing to be spooked when Melkor pokes him in an attempt to make him jump.

'Hey,' Melkor greets and leans down to steal a kiss.

Mairon allows it and then lifts an inquisitive eyebrow at his appearance. 'The out-of-bed look is good on you,' he admits, 'but I'm pretty sure you need a shower. Does jerking off inspire you to write music? I never noticed that before,' he jokes.

Melkor pales and backs off. 'You're right, I need a shower,' he mutters. He grabs a fresh change of clothes – something comfortable and suitable for the time of day, he hopes, he doesn't really look – and flees to the bathroom. He quickly undresses, wraps the entire left forearm and hand in the transparent silicone cap-like glove designed especially for this purpose and gets into the shower. Scalding hot water hits his skin and he hisses but doesn't turn it down or step away; in a few seconds, his cool body adjusts to the temperature and he realizes it only felt that hot because he was cold. Only now when the creative high is wearing off does he start to feel the combined effects of the unheated room and not enough rest. The water brings relief to stiff bones which hurt a little from the uncomfortable position he must have sat in for hours. Heat radiates into the deepest nooks of his body and, despite himself, Melkor yawns. It's a good thing he didn't decide to take a bath, he thinks; he'd surely have fallen asleep in the tub. What a sad end that would be! He's only just started the music: the fire deity and the bird of prey are now parted from their battle, but it is far from over since neither of them won or lost. What began a few weeks ago as a snippet about the wanton destruction of fire has now turned into an epic story of two forces fighting an eternal war. The two heroes on opposing sides, two opposing melodies growing from different backgrounds yet inexplicably wrapped around one another. They demand that he tells their story.

'Will I do them justice,' Melkor murmurs to himself and sighs. He quickly washes himself and steps out of the shower, dripping water all over the floor before he finds the towel. He dries himself off as best he can then uses the towel to wipe the puddles off the floor and throws it to the laundry basket. He makes a mental note to go empty it later. He gets dressed; the old faded t-shirt with a smiley face still fits him, surprisingly, even though it must be at least twenty-odd years old, and the sweatpants are too big. With a chuckle, he remembers when he bought them for Tulkas who liked to have sleepovers but frequently forgot to bring sleep clothes. It was back in high school and he obviously completely misjudged the guy's size. Tulkas never used these, so they survived up until today when Melkor grabbed them from the safe confines of the wardrobe.

He removes the silicone cap from his arm and throws it in the trash. The artificial skin looks sickly white under the yellow light in the bathroom and its semi-translucent quality makes the black wiring beneath stand out quite starkly. It's... disgusting, at best. The place where the real flesh gives way to the artificial is smooth, but if he looks hard enough he can almost see the meat underneath. The fake muscle tissue, also translucent and white rather than pink or red, is wrapped in a tight web of nano-wires so thin they look like threads, perfectly visible if he wants to see it. Touch receptors. Replacement nervous system. It's right there under the thick skin, thick enough not to feel any pressure on his forearm at all, and Melkor knows it also goes deeper to wrap around the bone as well. It supports the robotic structure built around the frail burnt bone. He has it examined once every two months, a full and thorough and wholly unpleasant check-up performed with some light-operating machinery he can never remember the name of. It could have been worse. He chose the translucent skin because it was either this or complete disassembly of the entire prosthetic each time he has it checked, and he very much remembers the pain of the initial assembly.

Melkor pulls on the black glove to hide the prosthetic from sight and leaves the bathroom. Sure enough, Mairon is right where Melkor left him: in the armchair, with his thick book. He's changed into his night clothes, but the leaf is still in his hair. Melkor walks up and removes it gently, then drops it between the pages of the book.

'Oh,' Mairon says and laughs. 'I must have missed it earlier. The dogs tripped me and I had to grapple around on the ground with them before they let me get up,' he explains fondly.

'Will you come to bed with me?' Melkor asks. He winces at how vulnerable it sounds and hopes Mairon doesn't notice.

The younger man nods. 'That's what I was hoping for,' he says, his face still brightened by a grin. He sets the book on the table and gets up, stretching his long limbs. 'Come, let me warm you up a bit,' he adds with a suggestive glint in his eyes.

Melkor follows him to the bed and only then notices that the sheets have been changed. He wonders if Eönwë did this before he left. With a sigh, he sits down on the covers instead of sliding underneath them and announces:

'I had sex with Eönwë.' He doesn't look at Mairon as he continues, 'I mean. He walked in on me jerking off and he. Well, he blew me. And I knew it's wrong and I still let him do it, and I didn't even try to stop him, and we even, ugh, we talked normally afterwards...' He trails off when he realizes he is rambling. He dares a glance at Mairon, expecting to see disgust and hatred and rage, all the things he should be feeling himself but doesn't.

Mairon looks at him thoughtfully. ‘You know, I’m not angry, I have no valid reason to even be angry. More like… I'm surprised, I guess. You were so weirded-out by the idea of Eönwë being in love with you. Now you actually slept with him. It’s a big change to take in,’ Mairon says simply. He gets on the bed, curls up on the blanket on top of the covers and pulls Melkor to lie down next to him, then begins to play with his hair, tugging a little when he finds a particularly stubborn knot.

‘Don’t think I’m not still weirded-out,’ mutters Melkor and sighs. The sensation of fingers gently brushing his hair is pleasant. Relaxing. He may actually fall asleep if it goes on like this. It wouldn’t be so bad. He could sleep the night and the subsequent day away with Mairon’s calming warmth by his side.

‘I suppose that means you want me to back off?’ Mairon asks, separating a long strand into three parts before he braids it.

‘What do you mean,’ mumbles Melkor lazily.

‘Well, you know. We’ve been having fun together, but at the end of the day, I’m just your hired escort,’ the younger man explains reasonably.

Melkor frowns. ‘About that-‘

‘I intended to pursue you romantically,’ Mairon continues, ignoring his interruption, ‘but since you worked things out with Eönwë, I suppose you will want our relations to remain strictly professional from now on. I understand that you can’t very well announce your affair with him publicly, least of all to his father, and I won’t endanger your secret by distancing myself from you prematurely, but-’

‘By the Void, don’t you ever shut up?’ Asks Melkor and, for lack of a better idea, kisses him. When he draws back, Mairon looks up at him in question, licking his lips somewhat nervously. It’s endearing. Mairon is so rarely out of his depth, it makes Melkor giddy when he realizes the power he has over his younger lover right now. Mairon’s eyes are set in him in a stare so intense it’s almost scorching.

‘You can feel free to pursue me romantically any time you want,’ Melkor assures him. ‘It’s… something I hoped for. Or maybe I didn’t dare hope.’

‘But… Eönwë?... I thought,’ Mairon says, stumbling over words. It’s so out of character – so _adorable_ , too – that Melkor chuckles. It comes out slightly strained, though, because,

‘I have no idea what I’m going to do about Eönwë,’ he admits and falls silent for a moment. He wants to add more, but he’s honestly out of ideas. The situation is complicated and has lots of potential to become a real cluster-fuck of hurt feelings. He really doesn’t like it. Eönwë deserves better.

‘Well. As long as I get to fuck you first, I wouldn’t be opposed to him joining us,’ Mairon says in a casual tone, recovering much too quickly from his daze for Melkor’s comfort. Nobody should be able to go from shocked to flustered to smug so fast, it’s not natural.

Smoothly, Mairon resumes brushing Melkor’s hair with his long nimble fingers which accomplishes that Melkor relaxes against the touch once more. His eyes slide closed and he hums softly under his breath, a content kind of lullaby-like melody building up in his mind. A calm before the storm rises again.

Then, ‘Wait,’ he says and straightens. ‘Wait, wait, hold up. What?’ He must have heard wrong. Mairon couldn’t just have said what he thinks he heard. It sounded almost like…

‘Yes, I want to fuck you,’ Mairon says boldly, ‘and yes, I am suggesting a threesome as a solution to your problem with Eönwë. If you need further clarification, I’ll gladly elaborate.’

‘Eönwë hates you,’ Melkor points out. It’s not what he should be focusing on, but he thinks his mind has short-circuited and fried. Anyway, it’s a valid concern.

‘He thinks I’m a threat to his standing with you,’ Mairon corrects him. ‘Once he finds out I’m not, he’ll come around.’

‘You don’t just _come around_ about going to bed with someone you hate!’ Melkor protests weakly. This whole discussion is ridiculous.

‘Maybe not. But hate in itself can be a pretty powerful catalyst to landing two people in bed together. Negative feelings tend to be more passionate. There’s even an informal term for it, _hate-sex_ ,’ Mairon supplies in a completely casual tone. Melkor looks at him and sees how the younger man is clearly attempting not to laugh.

‘This is not funny!’ He exclaims indignantly and Mairon bursts out into a fit of giggles. Melkor pokes him between the ribs in retaliation. Mairon easily wriggles out of his reach and then pounces on him and pins his arms down by the wrists. There’s a playful smirk on his lips when Melkor attempts to struggle and finds out he’s effectively trapped.

‘Let go,’ he mutters, trying to pretend he’s still offended when in fact he’s more excited than anything else.

‘I won’t,’ Mairon replies softly. When Melkor pouts in an exaggerated manner, Mairon blows a puff of warm air on his ear. It makes him shiver. He licks his lips and breathes in when Mairon leans down to nuzzle his ear with his freckled nose. Mairon’s hair smells of cinnamon and pinewood smoke. Along with the pressure of Mairon’s warm hands on his wrists, the rich scent sends a clear signal straight to Melkor’s groin; he’s larger than Mairon and stronger, he could overpower him but won’t because fuck, but he loves being held down like this. Even when his left arm throbs in dull pain, he doesn’t mind.

‘I’m hurting you,’ Mairon notices and removes his hands.

Melkor almost whines. ‘You’re not. Come on,’ he mumbles.

EonweBut Mairon sits up and pulls him up as well. Grumbling about _be-cursed mother hens_ , Melkor sits cross-legged as Mairon examines his forearms, starting from the bare right hand and ending with the gloved left. Fleeting touch of careful fingers doesn’t hurt and Melkor thinks for a moment that the younger man will give up, only Mairon doesn’t.

‘May I?...’ He asks, stroking the edge of the long glove with warm fingertips.

Melkor shakes his head. ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ he says and looks away.

‘Okay,’ Mairon agrees and leans in to kiss him on the lips. It’s too brief to be satisfying and when he draws back, Melkor tries to chase those soft warm lips with his own. Mairon smiles and licks Melkor’s lower lip, then sucks lightly on it, causing a shiver to go down Melkor’s spine and a gasp to leave his lips.

‘This is me pursuing you romantically,’ he says in a voice which holds a definitely breathy quality to it. He is the very image of seduction with his golden eyes and glistening lips and a flush adorning his dark skin. ‘How do you find it?...’

‘You’re a tease and I hate you,’ Melkor groans and tries to kiss him again. Mairon stops him by putting a hand between them. ‘Well if you hate me, I guess I should go,’ he says playfully and makes a motion as though to stand up. Melkor growls in warning, but it doesn’t come out too threatening judging by the fact that the only result is Mairon’s laughter.

‘You’re laughing at me again, I don’t like it,’ mutters Melkor with a frown.

Mairon nods. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘You’re just so easy to rile. I could tease you all the time,’ he adds with a fond smile. ‘Does Eönwë do this?...’

Melkor frowns. ‘Why do you bring him up again,’ he complains.

‘Because I want to know what he’s like,’ Mairon replies reasonably. ‘I want to know who he is, because right now it seems to me he’s a spoiled rich kid with stupid ideas and bad decision-making skills. At least he’s got good taste in men, but that’s hardly enough to base a good relationship on-’

‘I’m too old for this,’ Melkor groans.

‘No, look. It happened, okay? Eönwë and you, it happened. And if it happened once, it will happen again. He won’t give up and let’s face it, you won’t be able to stay away. One of these days, he’s going to change your mind. You’ll give in because you already love him, you just have to adjust the way you categorize him. Eventually, with his insistence, you will. I refuse to be left behind when that happens,’ Mairon says and, with a mischievous smirk, he adds: ‘Also, he’s hot, so there’s that.’

‘You can’t be serious about this. I don’t want him, Void be damned, I want you!’ Melkor protests vehemently. It earns him a quick kiss and he growls again. He’s being manipulated. He doesn’t know what Mairon’s endgame is, but he is aware that he is being nudged in the direction the younger man wants him to go. He doesn’t appreciate it. That way lies insanity.

‘I know,’ Mairon tells him softly, ‘and believe me, I want you as well. I didn’t want to want you so much. It fucking scares me, how far you got under my skin. You were supposed to be just another client, I wasn’t supposed to fall in lo-‘ He trails off and looks away, embarrassed at what he just let slip.

Melkor can’t take it.

He kisses Mairon, hard and demanding, and doesn't give in when the younger man kisses back with the same fervour. Their tongues meet in a battle for dominance before Mairon groans and bites and Melkor yields to him with a breathy moan. The younger man's hands slip underneath the fabric of Melkor's oversized top and wander up and down his back, then grip his hips possessively when Melkor shifts on the bed as if to move. The pressure of his fingers on Melkor's skin doesn't lessen when Melkor lies back against the pillows, pulling Mairon on top of him. Yet for all of Melkor's rush when he initiated the kiss, Mairon responds nigh-lazily, kisses him slowly and thoroughly without any of the usual urgency that marks their intimate encounters. Like he is seducing him. Melkor groans at the thought.

Mairon breaks the kiss in order to remove his shirt and laughs softly when looks up at him in something of a daze. 'Don't fall asleep on me,' he warns in gentle amusement.

'No promises,' Melkor says, 'if you don't _hurry the fuck up_.'

'Such language,' Mairon laments and leans down to bite Melkor's lower lip. He sucks on it gently and Melkor growls in frustration. As good as being subjected to slow, thorough seduction sounds, it's not what he needs right now.

'Close your eyes,' Mairon demands in a whisper. 'I will give you what you want if you close your eyes,' he promises. Melkor sighs softly and does as he is told; if he were any more capable of logical thought right now, he'd be suspicious of Mairon's motives. But all he cares about right now is that Mairon moves the caress of his lips where it is more welcome at this moment: he pushes up Melkor's tee and places the lightest kisses on his abdomen, then sucks on his hipbone where a bruise will likely form from it. Then he pulls down Melkor's sweatpants, removes them completely and settles between Melkor's spread legs.

'Keep your eyes closed,' he whispers, blowing hot air on Melkor's arousal. He kisses Melkor's thigh, then, apparently all done with the teasing, takes him into his mouth. Melkor breathes in sharply and can't stop himself from pushing his hips up; it doesn't bother Mairon at all as he begins to suck expertly in the exact way he knows will drive Melkor crazy in moments. But it's not all he does; Melkor hears a distinct sound of something being popped and then one of Mairon's hands is prodding his legs to spread wider. He obeys and is rewarded when Mairon's other hand travels down between his thighs, behind his balls, when slick hot fingers massage the tight ring of muscle at his entrance.

'Mairon,' he gasps. There's a pause, then one of the fingers breaches him and Melkor groans at the intrusion. It's been a while and he's never liked it much, but Mairon's mouth on him feels so good and he doesn't mind, he doesn't think-

'Ah!' He cries and then bites his lips when the finger in him brushes against a spot deep inside and white hot pleasure explodes behind his eyelids; he hears or feels Mairon hum around his cock and he has to hold on to something so he grabs a fistful of Mairon's hair in a grip which must be painful. But Mairon doesn't stop, doesn't flinch, he presses the finger against that spot again and again, and when Melkor thinks it cannot get any better, when he thinks he can taste blood from how hard he is biting his lip to hold in the moans, Mairon suddenly releases his cock. Cool air hits him and he groans and opens his eyes to look down at Mairon, only to see his face level with his own. The younger man is grinning wickedly, the unholy glow in his eyes betraying his desire.

'I told you to keep them closed,' he whispers, then kisses each of Melkor's eyelids in a gentle caress so at odds with the fact that his hand is still between Melkor's legs, his finger still inside him.

'Fuck you,' Melkor bites out, then moans something incoherent when Mairon pulls the digit out just to push it back in, then adds another; and it's vaguely uncomfortable but feels good, better than he remembers it.

'Not this time, love,' Mairon says, chuckling darkly. 'Tonight, I'm going to fuck you,' he promises, leaning in to whisper this into Melkor's ear. Melkor is almost about to protest, but Mairon kisses him, stealing any thought right out of his mind; he withdraws his fingers, fumbles with something a moment, then presses them inside Melkor again, slicker, and they move easy now, in and out, in again, deeper, out and in, _fuck_ -

'You're so fucking tight,' Mairon murmurs, licks Melkor's swollen lips, groans softly when he too tastes the blood where Melkor's teeth broke skin; he curses and pulls away for long enough to undress himself quickly, leaving Melkor bereft of his touch. He rewards Melkor's patience with a deep kiss and a hand wrapped around his cock; he strokes Melkor as he kisses him, then breaks away and kisses the corner of his lips.

'Do you want this?' He asks and waits until Melkor is coherent enough to understand the question. Melkor breathes hard as he attempts to concentrate on anything that is not the hand moving lazily up and down his cock; he swallows and nods, then makes a disapproving noise when Mairon takes that hand away and places it on his hip instead.

Mairon repositions himself and the tip of his cock brushes against Melkor's thigh, then motions for Melkor to wrap a leg around his hip. When Melkor does, Mairon kisses his forehead and slowly pushes inside of him.

'Fu- _aaaah_ ,' Melkor moans and tightens the grip he hasn't even realized he still has on Mairon's hair. Mairon hisses softly and cups Melkor's face with his free hand.

'It's okay,' he promises in a barely controlled whisper, 'I'm going to be gentle with you, I'm not going to hurt you, it's okay-'

'Don't,' Melkor grunts, breathes in, 'don't be gentle with me!' He demands. He's vaguely aware of the blush spreading over his cheekbones and down his neck. He doesn't care; Mairon's cock is so large inside of him, so hot, the feeling of it so completely foreign and so incredibly _good_. Fuck, how come it's never felt so good before? Oh, fuck.

He closes his eyes, tries to calm his frantic heartbeat. Impatiently, he warns, 'If you don't start moving now, I'm going to-'

But he doesn't finish the threat because Mairon groans and pulls halfway out before plunging back inside him in one frantic push of his hips, then repeats the motion and does it again. Melkor cries out when every thrust causes Mairon's cock to brush that spot in him, when his own hips move as if on their own accord in a fervent demand for _more, now, yes_ ; and the way Mairon murmurs his name again and again like a prayer as he establishes a rough, frantic rhythm is almost unbearable. He pulls Mairon impossibly closer, wraps his arms around Mairon's shoulders and relishes the moan which falls unbidden from Mairon's lips when they meet his in another messy kiss. It doesn't take long for either of them; Melkor feels it build up in him even before Mairon wraps his hand around his cock again to stroke him in time with his thrusts. Fast, hard, everything around him is a blur but the feeling of Mairon's body in and around him, Mairon's voice in his ears, Mairon's smell all over him, Mairon is the entirety of his perception and Melkor can't hold back, can't stop-

He comes with his face buried in the crook of Mairon's shoulder, the drawn-out moan or scream he cannot keep down muffled against the younger man's skin; and Mairon is quick to follow, his own release marked with a sweet sound Melkor wants to remember forever.

They lay there for some time afterwards, wrapped in one another's arms. Melkor is too wrung out to do more than just listen to his lover's breathing as it goes from heavy and shallow back to it's soft, regular pattern, then slows down when Mairon begins to fall asleep.

'Hey,' Melkor whispers into the younger man's hair. 'Don't sleep yet. You'll hate the stickiness in the morning.'

Mairon mumbles something under his breath, then lifts his head. 'I won't hate it. It's your stickiness,' he says unreasonably, sounding like a petulant child. 'I don't want to move...'

'I don't mean to be obscene, but Mairon, you came inside of me. I'm not going to sleep before I shower,' Melkor informs defiantly.

It startles a soft laugh out of Mairon. The younger man looks at him with unmistakable fondness in his amber gaze. 'Yeah, it's probably hotter while it happens than afterwards,' he agrees. 'Let's have that shower, then,' he concedes finally. He stretches his long limbs, then gets up and helps Melkor to his feet as well.

They shower together, which takes longer than it would if they did it separately due to the moments spent kissing or massaging one another. Once they are done, they return to the bedroom, both semi-dressed. Melkor looks at the bed dubiously, but only the blanket covering the sheets appears soiled. He pulls it off of the bed and leaves it on the floor, then climbs underneath the covers and waits for Mairon to switch off the light and join him. There is a soft, calming melody forming slowly in his mind and he knows he will be able to capture its notes tomorrow or maybe the day after. He has a dawning realization of where the music in his soul leads. It won't be an easy road, but he will follow.

There's no return.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written sex scenes in over a year, please forgive me. 
> 
> Also, this is it... for the first arc of this story. Don't worry! There are a lot of loose ends and unresolved situations because this is not, in fact, the end. In the works are two more roughly similar in length which will describe the events that follow. They will be from Eonwe and Mairon's perspective, so there's probably going to be a lot less of Melkor's self-hatred (oh, how I'll miss it). Additionally, a prequel story arc featuring everyone's favourite Noldo will also come up at some point because I'm sure everyone wants to find out how come Melkor's become as fucked up as he is. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading so far. Thank you for not hating on my strange ships. Thank you for bearing with me, my weird hiatuses and long posting delays. I hope my works will continue to mildly entertain.

**Author's Note:**

> Coming soon:  
> Family reunions, improper gifts, sightseeing, ghost stories and deaths in the swamps - stay tuned!


End file.
